


a steady hand, a delicate man

by callmearcturus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accidental Declarations of Love, Alternate Universe, Bondage, Canon Asexual Character, Dom/sub, Gags, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, Light Gender Play, M/M, Praise Kink, Roleplay, Safeword Use, Sex Work, Sickfic, art restoration, unusual safewords bc Jon contains a lot of sass in him, very very soft, who uses kink as a form of self-control and moderation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: Martin is the proprietor and manager of a very discrete and fairly exclusive brothel situated between Belgravia and Chelsea. Blackwood House excels at special requests and pleasing any client.Except for Jon, who probably has never been pleased a day in his entire life.Despite that, he still comes back. It eventually begs the question: how do you solve a problem like Jon Sims?25/9/2020: now with epilogue
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 407
Kudos: 2073





	1. portrait

On the edge of Belgravia, where the streets began their nebulous transition into Chelsea, was an office building. White walls, tall windows with the flourish of Art Deco, and a lobby made narrow by ground level offices.

There was a central elevator, but it lacked the usual row of opalescent buttons numbered with floors. Instead, there was simply a ten key pad.

The right combination would direct the elevator up to the law firm on the top floor. Or to the exclusive restaurant on the second floor. Or to a very exclusive tailor with a knack for express orders.

Or, the correct five numbers in succession would bring the elevator up to Blackwood House. Which wasn't a house, obviously, but was welcoming enough to those with the right connections. The number combination was known only to trusted clients; all others had to wait in the lobby to be let up.

Not that it was impossible to get in with Blackwood House. Once per season, they hosted a night at a reputable club, making it possible to meet up and talk to new clients. It was an important way to draw new people in.

Most clients were regulars. Many were perfectly behaved and discerning people, as Blackwood House was very attractive to people who valued discretion highly. A few were troublesome, perhaps a little too used to special treatment or paving over every grievance with money. They never lasted very long.

Martin Blackwood, proprietor and manager of Blackwood House, could handle the broad spectrum of clients. He'd been in the business of pleasing people for a fair chunk of his life. There was a particular knack to leaving people thinking they'd gotten everything they wanted as Martin guided them along to his tune. He was good at it, and troubleshooting, at knowing how to end a day with everyone happy for once.

Except, of course, for Jon Sims, a man who had never been happy a day in his life.

* * *

This was how Jon's visits to Blackwood House went, inevitably and without variation.

Jon showed up promptly for his appointments, always around ten minutes early, and as he waited for his host, he worked at his phone, frowning deeply at the screen.

Gerry would greet him, confirm the details of his appointment, and when the time arrived buzzed Jon back into his assigned room, whichever was best suited for the appointment.

When his time was up, Jon returned, his face drawn into a perturbed expression. As he settled his bill and left his tip, he did not once smile, did not seem more relaxed than when he arrived. If anything…

Sometimes Martin stood in the door to his office and watched Jon as he left, and considered how Jon looked. It was hard to tell, honestly, because Martin only knew Jon as a patron of Blackwood House. Hell, it was fair to say he'd _never_ seen Jon Sims smile. But at the end of his sessions, Jon's face was something a little distant, a little lost. He never looked like a happy client.

And yet, Jon came back. Two sessions per month, sometimes three.

Today was the same. Martin consulted his computer; for obvious reasons, the appointment book was only saved locally. As he glanced at it, he saw:

 **_3:45_ ** _JonathS, Timothy, 120m. Req: Restraints, impact, NBTB, TLC. Room 4. Pre-paid._

Martin could translate it in his head easily. A two hour session in a purposefully sparse, utilitarian room with a one-way window overlooking the park outside. Tim had tied or cuffed Jon, struck him with something, but hadn't touched him below the belt, and then spent most of the time helping Jon through the come-down.

Tim was exceptional at his work, and had been doing it almost as long as Martin. (If Martin still counted; he'd not taken a client in a long time.) He handled Jon regularly and they had a rapport.

Still, as Jon spoke to Gerry at the reception desk and arranged a tip, there was only taut discomfort to him. He didn't look like someone who'd just completed a session with a sex worker who took diligent care of him. He looked… tired, and drawn.

After Jon had left, Martin stepped out of his office and stood over Gerry's desk.

"Hey, boss," Gerry said, stapling the credit receipt to a paper and filing it away. "Just missed trouble."

"Don't call him that," Martin murmured. "Same as ever?"

"Looking like he's swallowed a lemon? 'Course."

"Did he say anything?"

"All his pleases and thank yous, nothing out of the ordinary." Gerry hooked a pen behind his ear, letting it push his hair back out of his face. "Why?"

Why indeed. Martin frowned.

"Listen," Gerry said, quieter and more earnest. "He pays well, he comes in regularly. No complaints."

All of that was true. But still, it gnawed at Martin a little.

His work— _their_ work, it existed in a strange median between different services. Sex, obviously, was core to it and for many people it was everything. But there was always emotional care involved. Especially in Blackwood House, ensuring clients left in sound mind was vital. They weren't anyone's therapist by any means, but.

Always that. _But._

Martin slipped into the back hall, past the reception area. It was framed on either side by sturdy doors, each adorned with a golden number.

Each door was soundproofed. Really, the entire floor was silent as a whisper. Necessary for their work. To announce himself, Martin walked up to room four and pressed the buzzer twice before letting himself in.

Room four was a favorite. It sat against the tall windows at the front face of the building, and plenty of natural light spilled in, illuminating so much, there was no need for lamps. The glass was treated; a clear view outside, but not so much as a shadow visible inside.

There was a bench by the window. Tim sat there, idly tapping a long whippy riding crop against his thigh in a steady rhythm.

As he looked up and spotted Martin, a sunspot of a grin broke through his stormy look. "Hey, boss. How goes it?"

"Just checking in." Martin walked to the window. The sun was sinking low, casting brilliant light over the city. "Everything go alright today?"

"Yep. Nothing out of the ordinary. Good hard day of work." Tim tipped him a wink, and chuckled when Martin rolled his eyes at him.

From where they were, the front pavilion was visible, the perfectly arranged trees, the pale stone path to the narrow car park. Timing would have it, that as Martin stood there, far below Jon stepped out of the building and walked between the trees, head bowed, phone in his hand.

Tim stopped tapping his thigh with the crop and laid it over his lap. "Poor bastard."

Blinking, Martin looked away from Jon climbing into a hired car and to Tim. "What? Who, Jon?"

"A-yep." Nodding slowly, Tim flicked the glass with the crop. "Enough to make a veteran second-guess himself."

"I doubt he's… He always seems…" Martin floundered. "He tips well?"

Tim punctuated a laugh with another crack of the crop. "Well, yeah, that's true! But, christ, I don't know what he gets out of it. Something, I hope."

"He keeps coming back," Martin pointed out mildly.

"So does that thousand mile stare of his." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm doing my… eh, it's not even that I'm doing my best. I do good work. We know each other. I think we've got good energy." Tap-tap against the window. "And there he goes, presumably to sit in a dark room somewhere and sulk himself to sleep."

"Bit dramatic." Reaching out, Martin plucked the crop from Tim and set it on the table nearby. "I'm sure he's fine."

Tim, within him, contained a catalog of sardonic, unimpressed looks. He fixed Martin with a bespoke one, upturned lips and lifted brow. "Like you're not concerned."

"Concerned," Martin murmured, and rubbed his face. "It's none of my business."

"Uh, I think it's actually _exactly_ your business, in the most literal sense of—"

"I'm not prying," Martin said defensively. "I just… don't quite know what to think?"

"Fair dues. I don't either." Tim pushed up from the seat and stretched. "That was my last appointment. I'm heading out. Don't stay in office too long, alright?"

"Have a good night, Tim," Martin said.

"Go home at a halfway decent fucking time, will you?"

 _"Bye,_ Tim."

With a flippant salute, Tim grabbed his bag out of the locked cabinet by the door and left.

* * *

Martin had gotten where he was for two reasons.

One, he'd needed to do something when money got tight.

Two, he did genuinely have a strong inclination towards taking care of people.

Establishing Blackwood House was a way to deal with the latter. It was both impossible and a demonstrably bad idea to try to take care of every client who hired him. But he could certainly handle a small crew of people who agreed to work out of the House. Ensuring everyone was safe and had the resources they needed, it settled something in him. After his mother passed away, his desire to _do something_ grew into a clawing thing that cut him up inside with no outlet.

Now, he had people. And things were better.

It wasn't a huge surprise that Jon's haunted looks stuck with Martin through the stretches between his visits. The natural tendency to want to help had just found purchase in someone else. Annoying, sure, but not exactly a revelation.

Once per week, Martin tended to the front of house himself, on whichever day Gerry asked to have off. Jon's next appointment coincided with the same day, and Martin tried to give Jon his best welcoming smile as he arrived.

"Welcome to Blackwood House, Jon. Prompt as always."

Jon leaned on his elbows on the divider between him and Martin. "Mr. Blackwood, good evening. Gerry hasn't been sacked, has he?"

"Day off. Apparently I have to let him free once in a while." He checked the appointment book, humming as he clicked through. "Mm, ah-ha. Today, you're seeing Sasha. Would you like to review the booking?"

Jon's face fell, so suddenly Martin felt some sharp urge to— do something, a tense feeling racing through his muscles. He pressed his face into his arm for a second, grimacing before looking at Martin. "Could I speak to Sasha beforehand? I think, my day has been— I'm not sure."

"Of course. That's always fine." The reception area was empty, private enough, so Martin buzzed Sasha's room.

After a short delay, she stuck her head through the back hall door. "Need me? Oh, Jon, hey there." With a fast glance around the room, she saw it was empty, and slipped through to join them. She approached Jon, standing close but keeping her hands behind her back. "How're things going?" The tilt of her head, the way her curly hair shifted over her shoulder, was perfectly solicitous and kind.

"I, ah. Hm." Jon drummed his fingers on the divider, staring down at his hand. "Today has been… I don't know if I'm up for the, ah, usual tenor of our sessions." His lips pressed together unhappily. "Doubt I could handle a single kind word at the moment."

Sasha crossed her arms and leaned on the divider next to him. "Would something else be better?"

"I don't—" He reached up under his glasses to rub his eyes. Martin noticed his skin was smudged with paint, greens and blues embedded into the fine lines and beds of his fingernails. "Not sure, but a sharp tongue seems best right now."

Sasha frowned. "Hm. If that's what you need, Jon, I don't know if I'm suitable. I'm mostly a velvet glove type of woman. But I _think_ ," and she cut Martin an inquiring look, "Basira might be available?"

"Tonight, yes," Martin confirmed.

"No," Jon said quickly, looking even more pained. "I don't want to cancel on you, not on such short notice. I just." His hand curled into a fist. "I'm unsure I could handle… that."

"Hey." Finally, she touched him, just two fingers on his arm. "You come see me when you want to be sweet, okay? Go see Basira today."

"Sasha," Jon sighed.

She prodded him firmly. "You're not doing me a favor. I don't want you miserable and I'm not… geared for what you'd like. Next time, right?"

There was a long moment of hesitation before Jon nodded. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Are you kidding? I just got ninety minutes free!" She beamed at him. "I hear the thai place across the street calling my name. You want me to bring you something, Jon?"

He tried to return her smile, but it was wan. "Enjoy your thai."

Patting his wrist, Sasha left quietly.

A deep sigh rolled out of Jon's body as he glanced at Martin. "Well then. I hope that won't cause her any trouble. I'd like to leave her a tip anyway."

"Don't worry about that for now," Martin said, pitching his voice low and gentle. "Basira's free, but you know she won't interact with you below the belt."

"That's perfectly fine," Jon said. After a beat, he asked, "Is… is Daisy in?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid." He half-typed a message to Basira before pausing. "You can cancel altogether if you need, Jon."

"No! No. I just…" He jogged a leg, bouncing anxiously. "I need something grounding. Been a… rather long day of difficult clients." A slightly more genuine expression flickered over his face. "I imagine you are _very_ familiar with the feeling, Mr. Blackwood."

Oh, Jon was a difficult one, but not in that way. "Not today, I'm not," Martin said, and shot off his message to Basira. In three seconds, she sent back an affirmative. "I'm going to let you in early to discuss with Basira. She'll take care of you."

He began to say something before simply nodding, and circling around to the back hall. Pressing a button, Martin unlocked the door, and watched him go.

  
  
  


An hour and change later, Basira walked Jon out.

"Get a lift home," Basira told him, her voice flat and stern.

"Yes, ma'am," Jon said with something close to humor. His eyes were on his feet as he walked around to the desk. "As soon as I—"

"Home, Sims. You can settle accounts later." She jerked her head in the vague direction of the elevator. "Go home. Eat a solid meal. Don't pick up a paintbrush for twelve hours."

"Impossible," Jon said, too flat to be truly petulant. "I have to finish my work."

Walking forward, Basira rested her knuckles on the desk. "You know how to follow instruction, Sims. Go home. eat something, and take care of yourself."

Whatever was going on, Martin didn't dare intrude, and simply watched between them as Jon met Basira's gaze, then slowly wilted.

"Fine. I'll see… Next time, yes. Excuse me." His tired eyes slid to Martin's for a moment, as if anticipating him to intervene or something. When Martin did no such thing, Jon turned and left quietly.

Only when the elevator doors shut did Basira's shoulders relax, the tone of her voice softening. "Damn. What a mess he is."

"What was _that?"_ Martin asked. "Is he alright?"

"I don't know the details," she said, resting both her arms on the desk and letting her head hang loose. "Something about a client who's unhappy with a restoration and has been on his arse for the past two weeks."

"Restoration?"

"Art stuff. He…" She waggled her fingers expressively. "Fixes paintings, mostly for rich collectors. Seems a bit high stress."

Oh. That slotted well into place with what Martin knew about him. "Poor thing," he murmured before he could catch himself.

Basira snorted loudly. "Sure. Don't really understand it much myself."

"I hear there's a lot of very finicky little skills to it," Martin said. "Have to know a lot about chemicals and the history of different paints and—"

"What? No. The hard talk thing. Most of the time, he's coming in for submission. No, not even submission really." She gets a contemplative little turn to her lips. "Just controlled punishment, really?"

"He turned down his appointment with Sasha today," Martin whispered. "Said he couldn't handle a kind word."

That made Basira smile ruefully. "Well. I think I know _that_ type. Think what they need is a harsh hand." She knocked her knuckles against his shoulder. "Can't fix them all. Can't fix _most_ of them that need it, honestly."

She was right. Still, Martin couldn't dislodge Jon from his mind.

* * *

There were a lot of preconceptions about various elements of their work, almost all of which were wrong or varied based on the individual. The punishment thing was one of them, for certain.

Often, for people new or still learning, pain of the physical and verbal varieties was something to be feared. The _upper echelon_ of kink, as it were. Only the most experienced could handle the rough treatment and make it through alright, could even gain something from it. After all, why would someone go to a house of pleasure, a den of ill repute, for someone to take a flog to them or to give them a tongue lashing?

Martin had long since learned better. He knew how sometimes, having a controlled, careful application of pressure could help. Everyone had nagging voices in their heads, terrible urges that arose when self-loathing insinuated itself into the cracks and expanded like ice. For the right person, having a professional hurt them made the urge to do it themselves go soft and harmless.

And of course, some people just liked it. Not everything was a window into the soul of the client.

But sometimes… there were people like Jon, who wanted _something._

And here was the inverse: sometimes pleasure was much harder to take. Gentle treatment and kind words could be a diamond-tipped glove, and Martin had known people to tap out of praise as swiftly as pain.

It depended on the person, and he had a feeling Jon was very… specific about his foibles and desires and boundaries.

Martin was not anyone's therapist. He might as well gotten a cross stitch saying as much for his office. It was not his job to do that work for anyone.

He kept telling himself that, trying to be quite firm with himself. But it wasn't easy to apply The Dom Tone to oneself, no matter how much practice he had.

There was a day, right as the season was hinting at turning cold, when Tim got struck right in the face with a flu. It came on practically overnight and at four in the morning, he'd called Martin's personal cell to inform him.

No host of Blackwood House worked while contagious. Just no. It was a bad idea, to put it mildly. So as soon as Gerry came in for the day, he set to calling Tim's clients for the day to inform them. Then, just to be certain, the next two days of clients as well.

Generally speaking, no one wanted to fuck someone with influenza, so this went on without much complaint.

There was always a hiccup somewhere, though, and in the early afternoon, Jon arrived, only to be told that Tim was out sick.

"I did call," Gerry told him, with the candor only appropriate for _very_ regular clients. "And texted. _And_ left you a voicemail."

"Oh. I… turned it off. Problem client keeps… calling. Right." Jon rubbed his face. He looked a little extra unkempt, though Martin thought the rising stubble across his jaw was handsome enough. It was shot through with some silver, and Martin fought the sudden desire to look at the records and see how old Jon was. His apparent age seemed to fluctuate wildly.

"Sorry. I can get you in with Melanie."

Jon pulled a face, a clear and unmistakable _oh hell no._ "Ah, no, no, that's— I think Melanie and I are both in agreement that's not going to happen."

Gerry laughed. "Right, guess it's a bit weird paying your ex's girlfriend to domme you."

 _"A little bit,_ Gerry, yes," Jon said, rolling his eyes. "God. Now what. I quite needed the… well."

"How about Friday? Sasha had a cancel."

"Isn't Daisy back in town yet?" Jon asked.

"No, next week. You're her first back, actually."

Face falling, Jon nodded. "Then I… will endeavor to be patient."

There was a moment when Jon just lingered there, fingers drumming on the divider, as Gerry took a call. And Martin just entirely lost his head. Stepping out from the open door of his office, he said, "Would you like a cup of tea before you go?"

Gerry stumbled over his phone script, turning in his chair to glance at Martin.

Jon lifted his head, a dour expression still firmly in place. "Sorry?"

"Tea. For your trouble. I'm sorry you made the trip."

"My own fault, not looking at my messages," Jon murmured, but he was straightening up, resting his gaze on Martin. That thousand mile stare, Tim had called it, and Martin had known _exactly_ what he meant. Being on the receiving end of Jon's stare was a weighty thing, felt right in the ribs.

On a… a hunch, a moment of insight that came fully formed from Athena's own skull, Martin lifted his chin slightly and said, "Come have tea before you go, Mr. Sims."

The effect was immediate. Jon inhaled deeply, and nodded, circling the divider with his head low, walking to Martin's office.

Behind him, Gerry rolled his chair out to frantically mouth, _'What the hell,'_ at Martin.

 _'It's fine,'_ Martin mouthed back, giving Gerry a quelling gesture as he stepped aside to let Jon in.

He was going to hear about it from Gerry later. And from whoever Gerry mentioned it to in the meantime. But Martin just felt an ache when he looked at Jon, like his particular brand of exhaustion might be catching, some strange ailment transferred by observing it. Looking at Jon made Martin's _joints_ hurt.

Martin shut the door quietly and walked around his desk to sit. "I really am sorry about your appointment."

Jon stood in the middle of the room for a moment, being quite blatant about examining his surroundings. "Th-that's fine. Things happen, I am fully aware of the fallibility of the human body. Hopefully Tim recovers soon." He turned and looked at the shelf holding Martin's books, right above the shelf that held a row of small felted animal figurines. "Nice selection. Calvino's decent."

"Don't damn him with faint praise," Martin said, flipping the switch to turn on his little electric kettle. It was glass with a twee little blue LED that lit up the water as it started to bubble. He opened his box of teabags and retrieved two Darjeeling, carefully tearing them loose and dropping them into cups. "You could sit."

Jon lingered, examining the painting on the wall. Or, it was a nice print. Martin didn't much understand the desire to own a _real painting._ For a moment he felt concerned this might offend an art conservator's sensibilities, but Jon let out a soft hum.

 _"Pine Forest._ Most people only know Klimt for the gold stuff."

"You know, I never liked _The Kiss_ that much? The position the woman's in, it just looked rough on the neck."

Another hum, vaguely affirmative, before Jon settled into the chair across from Martin. He clasped his hands in front of him, still looking anxiously around. "I think this is the only room I've not been in yet."

No, Martin's office was strictly off limits to anyone who wasn't staff. Unwilling to announce that, he instead said, "There's also a sort of green room for the hosts."

"Been there," Jon said. When Martin shot him a curious look, he looked contrite. "Daisy, uh. She showed me once, since the med kit's in there. Apparently I'm much too twitchy for, uh, knife play."

"That's _normally_ done with blunt blades," Martin pointed out slowly.

The contrite grimace on Jon's face was nearly a smile, just topped to the brim with bitterness. "I was insistent. And I trust her. As much as…" He looked down at his hands and sighed. "I'm… aware, you know."

"How do you take your tea," Martin asked, flicking the kettle off right before full boil. Wouldn't do to scald the tea. "Aware of what?"

"Oh, I could— I, let me."

Martin waved him off. "You can tell me or I'll guess. Sweet and dark?"

Slowly, Jon nodded. "Well spotted." He watched for a moment as Martin prepared the tea, and set the appropriate cup in front of Jon. "Trouble. I'm aware I'm… trouble."

"Who told you that?" Martin asked.

Jon's lips curled briefly before resettling into a severe line. "No one needed to. I know, I'm _aware,_ Mr. Blackwood."

"I don't think you are. You seem like a man under a lot of stress." Martin added a small bit of milk to his own tea. "You mentioned avoiding a client."

Staring down at his tea, Jon said, "Yes. They are well aware I have a full docket of restorations, that I won't have time to assess their painting until next week. Yet, they're calling me daily. I lack the… I can't keep talking to them, it just takes it out of me." Picture perfect, he dug his nail into the side of his hand and a fleck of paint came off in a solid piece. He did seem to always have some clinging to his skin, now that Martin had been looking for it.

Martin took a sip of his tea and found it just about the perfect temperature. Jon seemed to be sort of sinking into himself, like a collapsing souffle, picking at more paint. So, gently but firmly, Martin said, "Drink some tea."

It wasn't quite fair, and gave Martin a tangled feeling in his gut. He knew Jon would look up and would pick up his cup and sip it, because Jon was a regular. His request record at Blackwood House was fairly consistent; with a glance, Martin would guess that Jon took to being dominated two-thirds of the time. Not always _submissive_ per se, but he obviously preferred a certain tone.

It worked. Jon took a sip, humming softly. His tongue swiped his upper lip after, and he sank back in his chair, still holding the cup. "I can only imagine your work must be stressful as well. In its own ways." He blinked, and flushed. "I, god, I shouldn't ask, I'm sorry."

Martin folded his arms and leaned his elbows on the desk, one hand still curled around his cup. "And why is that?"

There was a rabbit look to Jon as he met Martin's eyes. "I… am I being tested?"

With a soft laugh, Martin shook his head. "Mr. Sims. Jon. You've been coming to Blackwood House for almost a year and despite your concerns, have been nothing but gracious to the people who work here." He leaned in an inch more and lowered his voice into a stage whisper. "I don't know if you noticed, but it's my name on the wall."

A snort slipped out of Jon before he covered his mouth with his knuckles. "That, that's a fair point. You must be… very familiar with the industry."

Martin leaned back, and felt the way Jon relaxed a little, tension unspooling as Martin demanded less of his attention. "Yeah. Worked for myself for a long time. Eventually entered an arrangement with a particularly wealthy client. Saved up to start this place. Wound up behind a desk, mostly! Sort of how it works, when you go in for yourself."

"Do you miss it?" Jon asked, then squeezed his eyes shut. "My _god,_ don't—"

"It's more dynamic, being the actual sex worker or dominant," Martin answered anyway, a little amused at how Jon, who had so much experience here, could be _bashful._ "But it's important to me, to keep everyone working here safe."

"Your security is excellent." Jon looked into his cup. "Even I've often… felt rather secure here."

Smiling warmly, Martin said, "I'm glad. Obviously I want my people to feel safe more than anything but…" Delicately: "Well. You have to feel secure to fully let go of yourself, I think."

"That does sound nice," Jon murmured. The last of the tea went down quick, and Jon set down the cup so carefully it made no sound against the desk. "Thank you for… this. I do feel more— feel better, I think. You didn't need to do this."

"It was my pleasure," Martin said. "We'll see you next time."

There is was, finally. Jon's teeth flashed briefly around a smile, narrow and faint but unmistakable, before he nearly _bowed_ to Martin, and left the office.

With a long sigh, Martin fell all the way back into his chair, letting it creak wearily under him.

After a moment, Gerry rolled along in his chair to the office door, hand catching on the doorframe to drag him along. "So… What the hell?"

"It was fine! I said it'd be fine!" Martin flicked his wrists in the universal gesture for _shoo now._ "Back to it, please."

Unabated, Gerry pointed at his own eyes and then at Martin, but thankfully did glide back to his desk to welcome the next client.

Shutting his eyes, Martin leaned his head all the way back, trying to calm the jittery feeling in his hands.

* * *

Gerry told everyone.

This was, in hindsight, not very surprising. When you had a close knit group of people, everyone lived in each other's pockets a bit, and gossip was fucking manna from heaven. In four days, everyone knew.

Tim was in Martin's office when Martin arrived to start the day.

"Get your feet off my desk," Martin said automatically, hanging up his coat.

"Boss. Sir Blackwood. My esteemed Madame." Tim looked aghast, theatric and ridiculous. "I cannot believe you."

"Oh god, what have I probably not actually done this time," Martin complained loudly. "Don't you have a room to prep or something?"

"Not unless you'd like some TLC for yourself," he said and waggled his eyebrows. Flirtation always spilled so easily from his lips, the default of his speech even before Martin hired him on. "You, me, room two?"

Arms akimbo, Martin shifted his feet a few inches further apart.

Tim let out a low _oooooh._ "Hey there, mister man."

"Dial it down fifty percent, Tim, it's _too early_ in the morning."

"You're no fun," Tim said, but immediately did, hopping out of the chair. "So. Teatime with trouble, huh?"

"We are not calling him that! You and Gerry both, stop it." Martin had no qualms hip-bumping Tim out of his way, taking his seat.

Undeterred, Tim sat on the corner of the desk. "Taking my client? While I was _tragically_ laid up in my bed, invalid and feverish? Scandalous."

"He was having a bad day, I just wanted to do something nice." He sighed. "This can't be a thing."

"I think it's a thing, boss." Tim smiled without an ounce of apology.

"It's not a thing!"

  
  


Another one of their regulars, Helen, was arranging her tip as Melanie stood at her side, their arms linked. Melanie smiled, biting and fierce, as Helen set up their next appointment.

"By the by, do you do escorting?" Helen asked airly. "Holiday party season is coming, and I do _despise_ the chatter."

"Mhm, I think I can arrange something. Family parties or office parties?"

"Office. Maybe one family party." Helen smiled. "Would be nice to have some _fun_ for once."

"Oh, I can be fun." Grinning, Melanie gave Helen a hug. "Text me with some dates and I'll see, okay?"

Helen's heels clicked musically against the floor as she walked to the elevator and left.

The doors slid shut and Melanie's face changed, from coyly fond to a viper in a second. _"Really,_ Martin?"

Martin, who was manning the front desk today, recoiled. "What? What have I done now?"

"Shown a remarkable lack of taste. You've been retired for _how many years,_ and now you're eyeing Jon like a piece of meat?" She shook her head sharply. "Standards, Martin. You need standards."

"Jon is nice, and I'm still retired, and I didn't _eye him like anything,_ what has Gerry been _saying_ ?"

"Oh, you know," Melanie said lightly, and then did not elaborate, which was terrifying. She tied her hair back. "I'm going to prep my room. Let me know when Jude's here, yeah?"

"Sure," Martin muttered, watching her go. "It's not a thing," he reminded himself fiercely.

  
  


Over lunch in the green room, Basira sucked on a thai iced tea for a long moment, her eyes on Martin in a way that made him feel like a spider was crawling up his scalp. "So," she said, tapping her straw against her lips.

Martin twirled thick rice noodles around his fork. "Yeah?"

"Getting soft on Sims, huh."

"Oh my god," Martin said, putting his fork down heavily. "I had tea with him! As a— a— a _consolation_ after we canceled his appointment on him!"

Sasha, around a mouthful of panang chicken, let out an intent _"Mmph mmph mmph!"_

"Swallow," Basira said.

Doing so, Sasha sipped her own tea and cleared her throat. "It's so unfair! Swooping in on our boy with your seniority and all."

Nose wrinkling, Basira said, "Not my boy, I assure you."

"Oh, whatever, Basira."

"Can we not call it my seniority?" Martin sighed. "Makes me feel ancient."

"You look great for forty-five," Sasha simpered at him, smiling.

"Fired. You're fired," Martin told her.

"He really does require a certain touch," Basira said, ignoring the terrible slander Sasha was aiming at Martin. "Best to err on the side of caution with him."

"I am," Martin reiterated slowly, "so utterly and completely retired. I am not taking your client. I'm not taking any clients!" He attacked his noodles again. "One cup of tea does not make me some awful client poacher."

"Technically, all our clients are your clients anyway, so." Basira's straw made that irritating slurping sound as she put it between her lips and stared flatly at Martin.

"Stop," he told them. "It's not a thing."

  
  


Then, Daisy arrived back from her little vacation, her skin darker, her freckles prominent across her face and shoulders, her hair trimmed and pulled from her face. She carried her duffle bag into the House, as always, giving Gerry a brisk high-five of a hello, and then slipped into the back hall.

Getting up, Martin followed her. Room five today, she was settling her things into the locked cabinet with the door ajar. When he entered, she stilled and looked up.

"Welcome back. How was the continent?" he asked.

"Big. Quiet. I liked that part." She finished packing things away and locked up. "Glad to see the fort has held while I was away."

"Just barely," he said. "We missed you terribly."

"I bet." She stretched, her arm up and behind her head, pulling with her other hand. Her body bent like a willow, easy and supple. "And you? Been keeping well?"

"Same as ever." Taking a little initiative, he took the hand of the arm she was stretching.

She pulled against his grip and held position for a moment, letting out a little grunt before relaxing. They traded hands, and she repeated the process.

"That's not what I heard, actually," she went on in the same mild rumble. It always brought to mind a tiger's purr to Martin; potentially dangerous, but situationally gentle. "Tim was quite insistent that our Madame was going to snap up our best client."

There was less of a tease in her voice than everyone else's, but her register always made her sound more serious than the others. With a tsk, Martin let her go. "I made the mistake of taking tea with Jon, and now everyone's in an absolute tizzy about it. As if I've done trade in the last four years."

Daisy pulled her hair loose and started braiding it back, her eyes on him and fingers with practiced agility. "That how it is?"

"How what is?"

Her shoulder hunched briefly, not quite a shrug. "I'm asking how it is."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Martin leaned back on the cabinet. "Why is everyone going on like this? It's getting silly."

"Mm, 'cause it's Jon, I reckon. He's a singular one." She looked away, at the room around her for a moment, as if taking it in for the first time. Room five was comfortable, had a drinks cabinet, a nice bed, but also a wood and cloth director-style chair. Martin didn't recall what Jon's appointment requests were, but the room was dark, no windows, and warm. Someone, probably Gerry, had lit an incense stick earlier. It was burned half down, filling the room with Frankincense and resin smoke.

"You know how it's a bad idea to become invested in any client?" Daisy asked quietly.

"Yeah," Martin said.

"Yeah," she said. A smirk broke over her face, tipping to him like a poured shot. "I'd say it's like… seeing a stray kitten, that heartpang that makes you want to help out, but." She tied off her braid and flexed her fingers. "Don't think any of us are that naive, to give a shit about a john."

"Pun intended?"

"Ha." She sat in the chair, crossing her leg over her knee. "Jon needs help, and seeks it out, and pays for it. He values the work more than most on that side of the contract, you know? Still." She waved at the door. "You see him."

This conversation felt almost perilous now. "He's never… I don't know."

"He's lookin' for something. Thinks he's close to it here, and I figure coming here at least unwinds that tangled mess in his head enough he can function. But he's not found it yet. Whatever he needs." She smiled again, and it transformed her face from somewhat off-putting to something inviting. "I'm happy to help him try and sort it out."

"Doesn't really…" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I get all that. But why all the teasing?"

"Well. Batter up."

Martin didn't know if he wanted to be part of this. How did you solve a problem like Jon Sims? It was a fascinating question, no doubt, and it made Martin ache a little, the desire to uncover that knowledge.

It was a terrible idea, though.

There was a soft knock at the door, and they both looked up.

Jon stood in the doorway. Shaven, this time, and looking well. Or, well for him. Still taut like canvas liable to rip. "Daisy. Ah… Mr. Blackwood." He frowned at Martin, then arched a brow. "Double booking?"

"You're more than enough for me to handle, Sims," Daisy said, sardonic but with an undercurrent of rich familiarity.

That was Martin's cue. "I'll leave you to him," he told Daisy. Then he left as quickly as politeness would allow, closing the door quietly behind.

Fine. It was maybe a thing.

* * *

There was a palpable relief in Jon when Daisy returned. She'd always been his favored host, though he booked appointments with everyone except Melanie. It was sort of funny to Martin, to see how everyone just _liked_ Jon.

Still, when he was finished with Daisy, it was the same thing again. The same hangdog look. He rested his chin on his palm, staring blankly at the wall while Gerry finished processing his tip payment.

Martin watched him from his office, and thought about it. Having him come in for tea again. Maybe it would soften the blow of another session that didn't turn out how he wanted.

He deliberated too long; Jon gave Gerry a nod, took his card back, and swiftly left.

Next time, Martin thought.

How _did_ you solve a problem like Jon Sims? At his desk, Martin brought up the client records, narrowed the search to one name, and started to read the extended notes.

Blackwood House offered a lot of services and accommodated as many requests as possible. And Jon had… apparently tried the majority of them. Bondage, cuffs and chains and hogtie and spreader bars and even three sessions of shibari. Impact, riding crops and various flogs and once with a paddle (though that session had a notation to avoid doing it again). He'd done suspension in room five with Daisy several times; Daisy was the only one who had the training for it. There were a couple instances of dominance, mostly with Sasha though once with Tim, but they vanished from his records months ago.

Martin picked up a pen, set it to his scratch pad. Then, deliberately, put it back down. He was _not_ going to take written notes on Jon. No. That was a bridge too far.

But there was more. Scenarios didn't seem to appeal to him, though he'd tried most of the pre-arranged scenes. The Boyfriend/Girlfriend Experience he'd done, but mostly with Sasha, who excelled at it. Then, there was a catalog of experimentation. A little impact here with some blindfolding, some suspension with overstimulation there, two hours of nothing but wax play once (which Martin felt was just too much wax), everything they had to offer, especially along the submissive spectrum, Jon had tried it.

He kept coming back to certain things. Impact, especially a crop. Verbal commands, precise orders. Sex, but only in conjunction with submission. More verbal things, unspecified in the notes.

The instinct, with a record like this, was that the client knew what they wanted and weren't shy about requesting it.

Jon's dark, tired eyes were vivid in Martin's mind. Closing out the window, Martin made himself a cup of tea, and thought about trouble.

* * *

Not every session went smoothly. Such was the nature of the work.

There was a poetic intimacy to safewords, and Martin was, deep down, a fan of them, a chosen password to signal vulnerability. But when so many people entered Blackwood House and everyone saw to so many clients, keeping track of so many individual spoken talismans was just not feasible.

So, they used the stoplight system. Everyone, upon signing their paperwork and waivers and NDAs, were informed of the system and agreed to follow it. Green for good, yellow for slow down or change tact, and red for a hard stop to the session.

Everyone knew about it.

Martin was covering the front while Gerry was on lunch when Daisy swung the back hall door open and said, "Need help, now."

Before his brain caught up, Martin was already responding to her grave tone, standing and following her. "What's happened? Injury? Do we need an ambulance?" Oh, fuck, she'd been in with Jon, was Jon hurt? Did suspension go wrong?  
  


She led him down the hall, bypassing their assigned room and to the green room. "Bloody idiot, I'll have his head later. He wanted me to lay into him. Kept pushing for more. Started shaking real bad, freaking out." She put her hand on the doorframe, and turned to face Martin. "I moved him out of the room, but he's not… can't look at me without shaking again."

"Okay," Martin said. "Okay. I've got him."

"Be kind," Daisy told him. "I'll have it out with him later, because he _should_ have safeworded, and I _asked him_ his color—" She shut her mouth, lips pressed together, shaking her head hard. "Later. Be kind. Pressure's good for him."

"I'll take care of it," Martin said.

With a curt, unhappy nod, Daisy turned and stalked away. He assumed she'd watch the front.

Right. Steeling himself, Martin let himself into the green room.

The green room was actually green, a soft pastel hue coating the walls. There was a kitchenette, an enclosed side area with a shower, and a plush sofa in the middle of the room.

The lights were dimmed, and Martin left them as they were. There was enough illumination to see Jon as he paced in loops around the sofa.

His feet were bare, and a quilt was wrapped around his shoulders, hanging just past his knees. His ankles were very delicate, narrow.

His glasses were missing, and Martin couldn't see clearly but his eyes seemed red and unfocused.

The pacing stopped as Martin entered, Jon taking an instinctive step behind the sofa. "Oh. Oh, fuck, I can't believe…" He ducked his head, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Another screw up, _another_ , of course, right, that sounds just like me."

Martin stepped in slowly. "Jon."

"No, _don't,_ j-just don't. I know I— I fucked up, Daisy must be…" His face crumbled. "Daisy, goddammit."

Taking a breath, Martin tried again. "Jon. You should sit down."

"I can't, I really can't, no thank you," Jon said, words tumbling in a mess out of his mouth. He gripped the quilt with both hands, twisting it further around himself. He kept murmuring softly, ' _no, no, can't'_ under his breath.

The key was moving gradually. Martin kept one hand out, half-outstretched as he moved around the sofa. Jon took one step back, but seemed to be holding his breath as Martin got close.

Very carefully, Martin put an arm around Jon's shoulders. He was stiff as a corpse, and exhaled hard as Martin touched him. Shushing him, Martin pulled, more and more until Jon staggered a step, and he could draw him around the other side of the sofa.

A tremor was running through Jon, and he started shaking his head again. "It's all just a travesty, everything's gone wrong." A harsh laugh punched out of him. "I've ruined everything, just Midas in reverse, you shouldn't risk it."

Coaxing him to sit was difficult; Jon resisted, shuffling away from the sofa until Martin put a hand on each of his shoulders and said _"Sit,_ Jon."

Jon did. On the floor, by the sofa, weird and petulant and shaking like a leaf, hands clenching in the quilt.

Martin could work with this; he sat on the sofa and positioned himself behind Jon, his legs bracketing Jon's shoulders. Hands back on Jon's shoulders, Martin said, "Midas' story was pretty grim. If you've reversed it, I daresay that's a good thing."

Jon rolled his eyes, then ducked his head again. Drawing his knees up, he wrapped his arms around them, curling up. "Is Daisy alright?"

"Daisy is fine. Worried about you more than anything," Martin said, and pressed his hands into Jon's shoulders. Pressure was good. "Just take a few breaths and try to relax."

"I _can't,"_ Jon snapped, then flinched badly enough he swayed into Martin's leg. "Sorry, god, I— I've just…"

Martin closed his legs, exerting more pressure on Jon's sides, squeezing him as he rubbed Jon's shoulder. "It's alright. You're alright, you're safe here, Jon."

"Stop being so damn nice! You don't—" his voice cracked. "You don't _know._ How I've screwed it all up." He tugged at the quilt, pulling the fabric. It looked ready to fray.

Bending forward, Martin took his hands, held them still. "Shh. Shhh."

From here, Martin could see Jon squeeze his eyes shut, could feel the shudder run through him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…" A fragile laugh rattled out of him. "Doesn't matter. Didn't _mean_ to hurt Daisy. Didn't _mean_ to kill a painting. Fuck." He worked a hand free from Martin's to rub the heel of his hand over his eyes.

"A painting?" Martin began rubbing Jon's arm over the quilt. he could feel the juttery way he breathed.

Sniffing loudly, Jon pressed his hand over his eyes. "Killed it. Just destroyed it. Client wanted t— to repair a painting their great grandmother did. Managed to get one from an estate sale." He took a shuddering breath, and let it out sharply. "I killed it. The last owner, or _some idiot_ anyway, they coated the thing in polyurethane."

He said it like a curse, so Martin said, "That sounds bad."

"Horrible. You can't— you _have to_ chip it off, and hope for the best. I was." Breath, exhale. "God, I was being so careful. Chipping it off with a scalpel, I thought it was coming along fine. Under the— the coating, it had gone brown, but under it all the pigments were good, Very vibrant.

"Except the yellows." He tucked his chin against his chest. "I don't, I haven't figured out why, but the yellows stuck to the polyurethane and ripped right off the canvas. Just a disaster."

"What was the painting of?" Martin asked quietly, squeezing Jon with his knees, his hands, pressing down on him.

"A forest scene. Right at dawn. The morning light was coming through the trees and— and catching light sparks." He swallowed. "Very nice for an amateur. Until I killed it."

"Admittedly, this isn't my field," Martin said quietly. "But that doesn't seem your fault."

Jon scoffed.

"Can't you, isn't it a thing for conservationists to touch up paintings?"

"Oh, yes," Jon said darkly. "Not half the painting. It won't be the same. If I had just…"

Martin put his hand in Jon's hair, running against the grain, nails against his scalp. "Jon. Did you come in wanting to be punished for it?"  
  
"Yes," Jon said, low and sibilant.

Asked and answered. Martin had suspected as much, and wondered how often that was Jon's goal. But that required a lot more context than Martin had. Instead, he dug his fingers in at the nape of Jon's neck, stroking up, pleased when Jon lay his head on his knees.

"Does it help?" he asked softly, continuing the long petting motion.

"You know," Jon murmured, eyes lidding slowly. "I'm not sure anymore. And that... " A sharp inhale through the nose. "I need it to. I don't have anything else that _works._ If this fails, then I fear I'm going to rattle apart into a thousand pieces."

That was too easy to imagine, honestly. Jon's entire body looked and felt like it was held together with loose bolts, liable to come loose in a catastrophic manner any given moment. Martin wanted to hold him in one piece somehow. He wasn't sure how.

Releasing Jon slowly, Martin sat up. There was a twinge in his spine from the bent position, but he ignored it. "How are you feeling?"

"Embarrassed. Unbelievably foolish."

Martin flicked his ear, startling him completely. Jon turned and gave Martin a bewildered look.

But he did look better. Martin tipped his head and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Very tired. Bereft. But, ah, stable. For the moment." He shifted out of his tight, almost fetal curl and stretched out his legs, rearranging the quilt around himself. "Also astonishingly naked."

"Do you think you're up for dressing and having some tea?"

Jon glanced at the door and his body tightened, pulling in. "I don't… don't think I can see her yet." His voice picked up tempo. "Which is my own fault, I take all the blame for ruining the session, and I will do anything I can to make recompense, but a-at the moment—"

Martin stood up and walked to the corner of the room. Beside the fridge was a door. He unlocked it and opened it. "My office is right here."

Bracing himself carefully and clutching his quilt, Jon stood and padded on quiet feet over to look. "Huh. Oh, to… for safety, that's very clever."

"And more banal stuff, like avoiding people," Martin said with good humor. "Come inside. I'll send Gerry to get your things when he's back from lunch."

"Someone else aware of my disastrous behavior," Jon muttered.

"Hey. No." Martin rubbed his shoulder. "Gerry's, well, he's _Gerry_ , but we all work here. We all know how to be discrete. And we all know these things happen, no matter what precautions we take. Everyone's human."

Jon stared at his feet, looking small and terribly lost until Martin nudged him inside. "Sit down."

Martin made tea. He made a pot this time, working meticulously and swiftly, and not letting Jon so much as touch a spoon until a cup and saucer were set in front of him.

That same thing happened, the tension leaking out of his face as he watched Martin. His hands moved anxiously, like the urge to intervene and assist was so great. But he quelled each time Martin shot him a look, and eventually he was swaying very subtly in his seat, fingers hooked through the arm of the cup.

"Thank you, Mr. Blackwood," he said quietly.

"You're sitting in my office in spare linens. I think you can call me Martin."

Jon smiled brittlely, and nodded. "Yes. Martin. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Martin said, and it was not as much of a rote line, a stock response, as it should have been.

* * *

Jon's next appointment wasn't for another two weeks, so it was a surprise when he arrives in the mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Blackwood House closed up early on Saturdays, mostly to give Martin a _semblance_ of a life outside its walls (for all he did with it). Jon knew this well enough to arrive just as the final clients of the day were finishing up, and sat himself in a waiting chair with a sheaf of green paper across his lap.

Martin wanted to go talk to him. It was a total distraction, waylaying every other thought he was _trying_ to have as he went over the week's expenses and overhead and income. He tallied up everything himself, and the tips had to be added manually to everyone's pay cheques. There was work to finish.

Jon Sims sitting in the reception area with his knee bouncing anxiously was not conducive to work. It wasn't fair to blame him, though; not Jon's fault Martin was… interested. Interested in Jon like a professional mystery, like a puzzle box, nothing else. Jon had a problem, _was_ a problem, and Martin just…

He always looked so tired and alluring paint-smudged. Today, Martin could see a beautiful lilac smear over the back of his hand. As he sat, he started picking at it. The man positively shed pigment everywhere he went.

Eventually, Daisy stepped out from the back hall, her bag slung over her shoulder; she had Sundays and Mondays off and was clearly ready for her weekend.

She stopped on a toe when she spotted Jon, and he stood, a little uncertain.

There was enough ambient conversation in the lobby that Martin couldn't eavesdrop as he was so wont to do, but he did see Daisy walk over to Jon and knuckle her hip, staring down at him with her full height. Which was enough to cow most people.

Jon met her eyes steadily, stunningly unafraid, before pulling a ribbon off the sheaf of paper, unwrapping it a little.

Inside were springy white flowers on thin stems. Daisies.

Jon kept speaking, low and fast as Daisy took the bouquet from him. Without anything to hold, Jon spoke with his hands, fingers curled and supplicant as his lips formed _'I'm so sorry'_ among other things.

Daisy took a deep breath, her shoulders and chest moving with it. Tucking the flowers into one arm, she reached out, wrapping her other around Jon's shoulders, tugging him against her neck. Her hand cupped the back of his skull, and she whispered something forceful into his ear, keeping him close as she spoke.

A shudder ran through Jon, and his arms closed around Daisy's waist. Though, Martin noticed he did that thing, kept his hands turned outward to not grab her too close. It was a little thing, and Martin was annoyed at how much that little consideration made him flush.

Daisy finished whatever _lecture_ was spilling into his ear, and pulled back, looking down into his eyes. Jon's smile was wan, and he nodded once.

She kissed his forehead, quick and fast as a pulled trigger, before they separated and she carried the flowers with her as she left.

In her wake, Jon covered his face with both hands for a moment, taking two deep breaths before relaxing.

Then, he looked up through the office door, and caught Martin's gaze.

Shit, he'd been staring for the entirety of that exchange. Which, to be fair, was right in the open in the lobby, but also, god. Martin cleared his throat and looked back at his computer, at the rows and columns arrayed for him to do serious work with.

The soft tap at his door wasn't a surprise. Jon stood there, looking anxious. "May I speak with you? If you're not too busy. If you are, I can come back."

"Fine, it's fine!" Martin cleared his throat, because his voice had jumped an octave there. "Come in, sit." Without considering it, he flicked the little glass kettle on.

Jon always sat so gingerly, as if expecting the chair to collapse beneath him if it found him unworthy. Which, given what Martin was coming to understand about Jon, maybe? Maybe.

"You do seem very busy," Jon remarked as he watched Martin.

"Not too much for you," Martin said. "End of the week, I'm just arranging everyone's pay."

"I thought coming in today would be the best option."

"Any day works, honestly. I'm always here, until Gerry chases me out." He fell into silence as he punched a few numbers into his calculator, then relayed the total into Tim's pay.

There was a quiet noise, hidden by the keyboard at first. Ceramic tapping. Martin looked up and Jon was leaning over the desk to arrange two cups on saucers, adding sugar.

"Jon," Martin said faintly.

"You use Darjeeling, right? Or is it the oolong? I think it's Darjeeling," he said, seemingly to himself as he set a bag in each, then poured the water, just under boiling. With a spoon, he agitated the bags a little, then sat back to let them steep, his hands folding almost primly on his lap.

Martin didn't say anything because he just knew he'd somersault a few octaves _again,_ it was inevitable and mortifying.

"I wanted to apologize for my last appointment," Jon said, with the tone of a man who'd taken time to consider his words much in advance. "I was overconfident in my own limitations and ignored every good practice. I know that… seeing to clients in these circumstances is literally a service offered, but I never wanted to be that person. I shouldn't have been that person. It wasn't out of inexperience that I frankly screwed the entire thing up, but… arrogance. And I'm very sorry."

After a beat, he added, "I didn't bring you flowers. Your name doesn't lend itself to an obvious, pithy choice."

"That's fine," Martin said. "Thank you. I'm just glad you're alright."

"Still embarrassed, but all well otherwise." He leaned to take the cups, setting them into place on either side of the desk. "You were very kind."

"It's this grand charade I'm keeping up," Martin said lightly. "As soon as I've tricked everyone into thinking I'm nice, then they'll all see."

Jon's lips curled up. "I'm happy to be taken in by the masquerade."

"And I'm happy you're still here. I'm sure Daisy is too."  
  
"Besides the scolding? Yes." He blew across his tea and sipped it. "You're not rid of me so easily."

"Thank goodness. Ah, listen." Martin looked at the clock. "Give me a few minutes? I need to finalize this. But don't, you don't have to leave, alright? Just sit put 'til I'm done, alright?"

"Oh. Certainly."

Good. Martin just— he didn't feel done with Jon yet, but the administrivia had to be done first.

He calculated each tip amount, revised the cheques, then double checked them again, because Martin had never been the greatest at maths and sometimes made very simple mistakes. Doing it all twice worked well enough for him. Saving each pay order, he sent them out, then handled Gerry's before finally his own. There was always a nice hum to it, when money did find its way to his account. His little venture was working, and that was the most he could dream of, honestly. Something to make the long hours and the otherwise quiet life worth it.

Sex work had never been so mundane. Sighing, he sipped his tea, and let out a pleased sound. "Oh, that's good," he said, looking across the desk at Jon. "You've done it perfectly."

Jon had been holding his cup and saucer, just looking at Martin as he worked. Nothing else around the room, just Martin. The remark seemed to startle him, and he colored darkly across his cheeks and jerked.

The cup slid right off the plate and to the floor, landing with a dull thud. "Shit," Jon said with feeling, pushing his chair back and dropping out of sight.

"Oh, are you alright?" Martin stood, circling around.

"Fine! What is _wrong_ with me, my entire career is built on steady hands, and here I am," Jon said viciously, on his knees and blotting up the tea with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Jon," Martin said. "It's fine. I can take care of it later."

"No," he said firmly, freezing in place, his eyes squeezing shut. "I… Please. Let me. I would like things to go well for _once_ this week."

Still, he wanted to go fetch a towel, something. There were better ways to leech a spill out than someone's jacket.

"The only carpeted room in the place," Jon noted softly as he slid said jacket off and pressed it to the dark spot.

"Yes, well. It is a brothel. Might have to hose something down," Martin joked lightly, pleased when Jon's eyes crinkled at the corners. "That's well enough, Jon. You can stop."

The empty cup and saucer placed on the desk, Jon folded his jacket over and rested it in his lap as he sat back on his heels. He seemed calmer. At least not beating himself up anymore. His fingers ran through his hair, coaxing it back as he lifted his head— then ducked it again quickly.

Martin sort of caught up to the fact of standing over Jon as he knelt.

Something in his chest perked up and went, _interesting._ Martin wasn't quite fast enough to suffocate it, and it suffused heat through his body. He held out his hand to Jon.

After two agonizingly long seconds, Jon took it, and let Martin pull him to his feet. "You did well," Martin said, because sometimes old habits just would not fucking die and the words were so instinctual. "Ah, thank you."

Jon could not meet Martin's eyes for the life of him, looking off to the side, cheeks smudged dark. "Yes. Well, my apologies for the, ah."

"It's fine. You won't drop it next time." _God, shut up, stop it._ It was unfair, how his brain was just changing tracks. Jon was pleased. Martin knew Jon was pleased, the charge of it around him like static. And Jon was trouble, was a problem needing a solution, was _never_ pleased.

Now, he was tucking his arms around himself and bowing his head, and Martin hadn't felt so taken with someone in so long. It'd been four years-ish since Martin had done much of anything, but he thought it was even longer since…

He cupped Jon's elbow, and felt his heart beat faster with how Jon lifted his head to look at him then. Whatever he'd been about to say, it vanished. He could watch Jon's face, see a few of the less stubborn lines smooth out, the way his almost permanent displeased squint softened. His eyes were very dark brown with paint streaks of amber swirling through.

Jon's hand curled around Martin's arm near the elbow. Light pressure. Grounding him, perhaps. He needed grounding. It would be easy. It _was_ easy, as Martin pulled him very softly, and Jon swayed with all the gravity of a tree falling; slow at first, then his head rested on Martin's shoulder.

He was so caught up in this reexamination of how Jon felt against him, so different from the last time, the way he breathed deeply and steadily, not an ounce of panic in his body, that Martin almost jumped and wrecked it all when the light changed.

Oh, god, Gerry was at the door. It was just _left open_ because Martin didn't have any prescient dom senses, this was supposed to be just a cup of tea and sympathy. Now, Gerry had his hand on the door, and when Martin looked at him, _Gerry_ was the one who froze like he'd been caught out.

There was an unmistakable _whoops_ expression on his face before he pulled the door shut as quietly as he could, just a faint click as the handle settled.

Later, he was going to suffer for this. Martin knew it. The entire House would know before Monday. Goddammit.

But know what? Martin gently rested his cheek on Jon's hair, drunk on the feeling of how nicely he fit. When Martin pressed his palm to the space between Jon's shoulder blades, he didn't so much as twitch, he was so calm.

A sigh fanned against Martin, and that ache struck Martin right in the gut. He held Jon like that for a moment before gathering himself and turning his head, ducking in against Jon's ear. "Jon. I want you to sit down. In the chair," he added, remembering Jon petulantly plopping himself down on the floor and avoiding the sofa.

A fissure of tension skated over Jon. Which Martin was ready for. "You're not in trouble. You're doing lovely. But I want you to sit."

His grip loosened, and there was a moment when Jon didn't move, shoring up before he stepped back from Martin. The chair wasn't far, and he fell into it, as if the two steps to get there had already been too much.

This time, Martin knelt, and placed his hands on Jon's knees. "Look at me."

"Oh," Jon sighed, laughing a little. "Must I? Could we pretend that didn't… That it didn't."

That hurt a bit. "We could do that," Martin told him. Because it was true and a… perfectly valid course of action.

Jon's eyes widened and snapped back to Martin. "I…"

Martin crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, holding his gaze like it were a precious, delicate thing. "Mmhm. Look. I'm not terribly surprised."

Jon shook his head. "I'm so sorry."

"No, not _you,_ Jon. Me." He sighed. "It was all me, just wanting to…" It was hard, with Jon's face soft and his expression tilting into worry. "I enjoy your company way more than is professional, and I… rather think… you're lovely. So there's that for you."

His brow furrowed. "I cannot imagine why. I'm given to understand I'm something of a menace."

"You're not. Don't say things like that, not with me," Martin said, the command of it just slipping out. Jon shut his eyes silently. "I… cripes, I haven't done this in years." He rubbed his eyes for a moment. "Look."

"I'm looking," Jon reassured him, opening his eyes again. "The view is a little strange."

"I don't want to stand over you when I do this, and you're kind of short." The frankness startled a laugh out of Jon, and the sound was just wonderful. Martin rubbed Jon's thigh with a palm. "The thing is that I don't do clients anymore, Jon."

That fell over Jon like a blanket over a fire. He nodded, resignation writ clear to him. "Of course."

"No, I'm not— not done." Martin sighed. "I don't take clients, and I wouldn't want you as my client if I did."

"I get it, I understand," Jon said, the warm just leeching out of his voice. He shifted as if to stand.

Martin pressed firmly, keeping him seated. "You _don't._ Listen to what I am saying. If we were to do anything, you wouldn't be my client, and I sure wouldn't do it here. This is a place of business. Okay?"

Settling back against the chair, what was undeniably a pout broke over Jon's lips. "Okay. Then… then, are you… do you want to?"

"Yeah," Martin said. "I think I'd like to try. If you want to. Again, I've not done this for years and I haven't, ah, kept myself up the way the others do."

"What? No, you're…"Jon stumbled, flushing. "Riveting. Lovely. I, ah." He licked his lips. "I would like that. If you wanted to try. I don't quite know what just happened with the— the tea, but I've never felt that before."

Martin had an idea. Oh, he was _flushed_ with ideas now, given what he thought he'd sorted out about Jon, and when he let himself consider it seriously, the heat in his chest went absolutely giddy. "Well," Martin said, keeping his voice steady. "You should still think about it first. And I mean really consider it. You'll be welcome back here regardless. I'll give you my number."

"Right," Jon said, sounding dazed still. He watched Martin stand. "How long do I have to think about it?"

"As long as you need," Martin told him.

"Ah, no. The— the other way 'round. How soon?"

Martin turned to his desk, grabbing his pen to write down his cell number, because there was _no_ socially acceptable answer to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So between my last fic update and now, my computer, the late and reverent Timaeus, died very very suddenly. Fried MOBO I think. Consider this weird new AU a thanks to everyone who helped me get a hold of a new laptop. Enjoy another round of Arc Came Up With A Strange AU. Yes. An alternate universe where UK's laws regarding sex work aren't fucking archaic and oppressive, and things are soft.
> 
> I've already got another big chunk of the next part written, but it'll probably take a while to finish up.


	2. reflection

Despite Jon's initial eagerness, it took four days for Jon to text Martin, a simple _'I'm still interested.'_

Both of them were experienced in this, from either side of the negotiation. Martin knew the proper way to approach this. Especially with someone as sensitive as Jon, they couldn't rush anything, A nice dinner at a neutral location was just the thing.

Totally normal procedure for meeting a new…

Martin sat heavily on his bed and rubbed his face. That part was probably important to nail down. In the privacy of his own apartment, Martin could admit Jon was incredibly attractive in a very particular way, in a way that brought to mind long cold nights under warm blankets, late mornings with rain against windows. It was a domestic desire that felt like an arrow miraculously missing his ribs and nailing him in the heart.

He also was just… attractive. Really attractive. Good cheekbones, dark eyes, and a voice Martin just wanted to listen to all the time. Paint on his hands. Why was the paint thing so alluring? It didn't make sense.

Martin laid back on his bed and took a deep breath. He shouldn't get his hopes too far up. The circumstances they met in were important. And having a chance to be his dom would be more than enough.

Before he established Blackwood House, Martin had had a lot of sex. A lot of hanging off a gentleman's arm and being a perfect boyfriend. Martin's last client hadn't been so interested in submitting to him. In short, it had been quite some time before Martin had been paid to dom, and even longer since he felt the urge naturally.

But Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon.

Groaning, Martin got up. Laying around daydreaming of what if wouldn't do him any good. He had to get dressed and actually go to dinner and see what the reality of the situation was.

Then… Then, maybe something. But speculating on the possibilities made Martin stall again. Instead of spinning his wheels, he got dressed, checked his phone for the time, and steeled himself.

No new messages, just Jon's last one. _'I'm looking forward to it.'_

It was late enough that Rabbit was full, a line of patrons out the door. There was a twinge of guilt as Martin walked past everyone to the hostess, asking after his reservation.

He was doing this right. A nice place, well-lit, plenty of people. Keeping his hands in his pockets hid the fact they were shaking.

He'd intended to arrive early, but still Jon had beaten him to their table, it seemed. He was seated, leaned forward on his elbow with a glass of red wine. The glass was tall stemmed, and he spun it around the surface of the table, tilting it along the curved foot with his fingertips on the rim.

He was… very well dressed. A crisp white shirt with a blue waistcoat and black trousers. There was thankfully no tie around his neck, but there was a very nice jacket draped around the chair, rich dark tweed.

With a flicker of amusement, Martin realized he was a little _overdressed_ for Rabbit.

Stepping around the table, Martin took the bench seat flush to the wall, across from him, sinking down. "Hi. Hope you weren't waiting long."

Jon caught his glass in his hand, coming to attention all at once and sitting up straight. "Martin, good evening."

Sitting across from him without the safe intermediary of a tea set was significantly more affecting. Jon's eyes were dark, and kept catching the light around them. He stared at Martin for a long moment, then swallowed the last of his wine.

"Are you alright?" Martin asked, nervous.

"Yes. Sorry. I haven't done this in a while." Jon cleared his throat. "Y-you look very nice."

Martin _hadn't_ dressed up. Just his nicest jeans, a henley, and his favorite cardigan, with the big wooden buttons and soft green wool. He slipped the cardigan off, because it was warm enough inside, and pushed up his sleeves. "Oh, thanks. Not as done up as you."

"I've never been here before," Jon muttered, flustered. "It's possible I'm slightly nervous." His eyes held on Martin's arm for a moment before he very purposefully put his glass aside. "I'm not entirely sure what…this is?"

Martin held up a finger. "Order first, then talk. Nothing's worse than a waiter interrupting this kind of thing."

Lacking the palate and having spent more than a few dinners with people who ordered him wine, Martin had an elderflower lemonade. After they'd ordered and the menus were cleared, Martin let out a long, low sigh. "Okay."

"Right," Jon said. "So."

"It's always difficult, doing this bit. And I haven't in… five or six years? God." Martin chuckled softly. He'd been really young then. Young and unwise. Thankfully it worked out well enough.

"What would the… _term_ for this be? For my own elucidation?"

Not a date. "Um. Negotiation sounds a little too staid. And you're not a client."

"You've stressed that a lot," Jon noted. "Then I am…?"

"It's just not something I want to do anymore," Martin said hurriedly. "I did, for a long time, and now I don't. I don't." He looked at his tall glass, the beads of condensation rolling down. Swallowed. "Have you done this outside of a… service setting?"

"What?" Jon's lips pursed, a tad annoyed. "We'll need to speak plainly, for my sake. Do you mean… submission?"

"Yes, I mean submission."

"No. The things I tend towards, I wouldn't be comfortable asking that of most people. The… transactional nature, it always made me feel better about my proclivities."

"Your proclivities are fine, but that makes sense I guess."

Jon gave Martin a coy look. "I'll remind you that you're the proprietor of a very unique establishment."

"That's fair!" Grinning, Martin said, "The other day, I was queued up at the market, forced by cruel circumstance to read one of the magazines they had out. One had a saucy article on adding kink to your sex life, and it was, uh."

"Blindfolds?"

"Maybe some handcuffs if you're feeling adventurous." He beamed into his drink. "I thought, 'oh, how quaint.' Maybe my— my barometer of kink, it's a little miscalibrated."

"Also, probably a bad idea for the average Cosmo reader to start putting industrial hooks in their ceiling and the like." Martin laughed, and Jon looked pleased. "I imagine what I do would be considered positively monstrous." He sipped his refilled wine glass, much more slowly. "But that… isn't what you're interested in. I don't think, anyway."

"No," Martin said slowly. His cheek rested in his hand. "So there are rules with clients. It's a very bad idea to become too concerned with a client's reasons or history. You don't want to get invested."

"That makes sense."

"You're not going to be my client in part so I can ask…" He steeled himself with a deep breath. "What draws you so much to punishment? It's the majority of your sessions."

Jon made a face, suddenly breaking eye contact to look around the room. But it was a din of noise, and they had a corner table besides. "Huh. Brass tacks."

"Yeah." Martin leaned forward on the table.

His fingers drummed a little staccato rhythm on the table, head bobbing a bit as he considered. "I… don't think I've articulated it to anyone before."

"Not to be _that guy_ about it, but not a therapist?"

He rolled his eyes a little. "Yes, but knowing I have feelings of anxiety and stress and— and self-worth that are exacerbated by my career doesn't make those feelings go away. Doing something does."

"Except," Martin pointed out kindly, "you've never left Blackwood House truly satisfied."

Jon's anxious movements stilled, and his hands slid back to his lap. "No. Not really." Then, faster, "What happened, in— in the office, that…"

"I know." He pitched his voice down, hoping that would settle the agitation in Jon. "So. What _are_ you looking for?"

"Something to drown out the rest of it. The noise. Sometimes…" He visibly gathered himself. "Sometimes I feel like I'm barely here, everything in my head is so loud. Managing it, trying to shut it up, it's exhausting." He snorted. "My, ah, my ex, she used to joke… that stupid jingle. Maybe he's born with it, maybe it's sleep deprivation," he sing-songed quietly before shaking his head.

"Georgie's funny like that," Martin agreed.

"Oh, god, of course you know her."

"Ye-up." Martin saw plates arriving, and sat back to make room. "Oh, good, I'm famished."

The food was nice, if very garden-to-platey in a pretentious way, but Martin's cod arrived with a _leek veloute,_ which turned out to be a very good sauce thing. Jon seemed pleased enough with his scallops, though he was carrying that thousand yard stare again, aiming it at the wine glass that had done nothing to deserve it.

When he caught Martin staring, he looked pained. "I still don't… You've not been very clear on what this is. I know what it _isn't,_ and that's important. But if this is a proposal of sorts, I need to know more than what's _not_ being proposed. I don't—I don't want to screw this up."

All of that made sense. Martin thought Jon perhaps didn't realize how damned nervous he was. Which, given this was Jon and Jon was his own bundle of nerves, that made some sense.

Speak plainly, he told himself. "Okay. God, this is difficult. I want to…be your dom, I guess. To be allowed to take care of you and have you listen to me. I— I know you have plenty of experience with it, but I want to— to try some things that may help you, based on what I've seen."

Jon… frowned, looking down at his plate. "Sounds very, hm. Altruistic."

"Okay, _no_ ," Martin said, because yeah, he was doing that, being a dick about it. "I want you… you. I want you, alright. I haven't wanted someone for ages, and I look at you and have to shove my hands in my pockets because I want to touch you so bad. It's not altruistic, it's quite selfish and me dressing it up as anything else is— is a lie." He bowed his head, needing a second of not looking at Jon to brace himself for more. "And I do want to help you. I think I have some good ideas of how. But that isn't the point, really. I want to take care of you, and that's not just for you, that's for me." He glared. "You know some of this stuff already."

"Yes," Jon said quietly. "I, uh, I just." He couldn't quite look at Martin. "No one's ever, ah, ever wanted that? I've always, I arrange it, I do it with the lights on, so to speak. No one's ever… wanted me like that."

"I don't think that's true," Martin said.

"Well. You're the first to say so." He hummed softly, and tucked back into his food.

Which, thank god, because Martin needed a moment to collect himself.

It was fully dark outside by the time they left, and the crowd had dispersed. Jon kept his jacket folded over his arm for about ten seconds before relenting and pulling it on, going so far as to button it.

"Cold?" Martin asked, then nearly kicked himself.

"The Syrah isn't keeping me warm anymore." He put the sleeves of his jacket together, tucking his hands away inside so the cuffs met. It was unfairly adorable. "What now?"

"I don't have a plan laid out. The way these go, we should, ah." He tugged on his ear, jittery energy running through him. "Reconvene again another day and…talk more."

"About _what?"_ Jon's nose wrinkled in annoyance. "Do I look like a novice?"

"Jon," Martin sighed, bemused. "It's just…proper and all. I don't want you to feel pressured."

"I don't feel pressured." There was that high flush over his cheeks. "I could stand to feel more pressured, honestly."

"Are you…" He laughed. "Are you unimpressed or something?"

"Well." Jon lifted his chin. "Not exactly. But just going our separate ways without actually testing if we— we're compatible or anything, seems a waste."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Now you're just being difficult," he groused.

"Fine. Tell me what you'd like."

"You could come with me. Walk me home. That seems very…"

Martin lifted his eyebrows. "Dominant?"

"Sounded better in my head. Are you coming or not?"

He was. Jon lived in lower Chelsea, not far from the restaurant, just on the edge of what Martin considered walking distance in this kind of chill. Pulling on his cardigan, he fell into step with Jon.

They didn't speak, and it verged on becoming an awkward silence. Rather than let it, Martin stepped closer to Jon and wound an arm around his back, resting his palm under Jon's ribs.

He could feel the sharp breath Jon took under his hand, and the silence was warmer, more charged as they walked. Jon tucked his hair behind his ear, which would be coquettish if Martin thought Jon was at all capable of such a thing.

"I'm up here," Jon murmured eventually, pointing at a brass gated door. Nodding along, Martin steered them along, smirking at the little intake of air Jon took.

It felt nice. He supposed it was like riding a bike. In Martin's professional and personal opinion, it was all about little gestures, little shows of direction and confidence. He nudged Jon to the stoop and stood between him and the elements as he shook out his key and opened the door. It was heavy, metal, and grinded on its hinges as Jon pulled it.

He glanced back as Martin followed and yeah, yep. His eyes were dark and intent on Martin for a moment, then he led the way upstairs. Maybe Jon's insistence had been a good idea.

"It'll be," Jon said suddenly, "ah, it'll be messy. The front area is my studio, and I didn't, well, I can't clean it much honestly, I have a lot of projects going on." He turned to give Martin a look torn between apologetic and unrepentant. "I think I'll leave the lights off for now. Actual living quarters are through to the other side."

"Whatever you're comfortable with," Martin said. "I'm your guest."

"Right. Yes." He opened the studio door and tugged Martin in by his sleeve.

It was, as expected, dark inside. There was light through the windows, but many seemed to be covered with stubborn blackout curtains. Sunlight was bad for paintings, Martin assumed?

Jon's hand slipped into his and guided him across the floor, directing him around some unseen obstacles. All Martin could discern was the space was large and open, and it smelled of paint and old wood, and dry enough he thought there might've been a dehumidifier running.

Then, another door, no key this time. Just Jon coaxing Martin in and shutting it up behind before flicking on the light.

The sudden brightness stung his eyes. The trick was shutting them and looking right at the lamp, letting his pupils adjust before he could look around.

Jon already hung up his jacket and practically slunk away, his head bowed as he shuffled on socked feet into his apartment, turning on a lamp by the sofa.

There was a mat for shoes, and Martin followed the silent instruction, quietly relieved Jon wasn't one of those strange people who allowed shoes into his house. There were about four pairs of slippers, almost all splattered with different amounts of paint. He grinned, unabashedly charmed. Did Jon just spend hours in a bathrobe and slippers, bringing paintings back to life? That seemed lovely.

The living area itself seemed very small. There was a sofa with very wide cushions that looked perfect for napping on. There was a napping _aura_ to it. The walls had a shocking lack of paintings, but were painted a nice powdery blue-violet that Martin couldn't fathom the name of.

There was no television, but a projector hung from a ceiling, speakers mounted strategically around.

In the corner, a humidifier was running merrily, reducing that prickly dry feeling from the studio. Martin covered his grin with his hand.

A small kitchen was laid out beyond a half wall, and two doors, presumably to bath and bedrooms.

Jon finished going through his little routine and turned to Martin, a little nervous, a lot imperious. "Well, this is it. Make yourself at home and all that."

There were a truly absurd amount of paintbrushes in the drying tray by the sink. Martin sighed happily. "You know, I think it's exactly what I was expecting."

"Should I be insulted?"

"Do you want to be?" Martin made a decision, and sat down on the sofa, tucked into the corner and stretching his arm over the back. "I mean, you could be. Mostly I think it's very sweet."

Jon took in Martin's draped posture, and his body tensed all over, fingers curling.

Martin tilted his head. "Too much?"

"No. Just." He rolled his eyes. "Why am I surprised, I expressly asked to— it's fine."

Martin hummed softly, taking in the lines of Jon's body. He seemed assembled from acute angles, a little pointy and edged. "You have tea?"

"I live on this tannin-soaked island, don't I?"

"Go on, then," Martin said, smiling. The way Jon bristled was new and interesting, completely different from the Jon who attended Blackwood House. "I'll keep making deep character judgements based on your interior design."

Jon blew out a breath loudly. "Fine. You do that." He stepped away.

"Wasn't asking," Martin called after him liltingly, and listened for the stagger in his step. Oh god, this was fun. He was having fun. It was tingling in his fingertips, the urge to just poke at Jon. See what he'd do.

He wasn't disappointed. He could hear the sounds of tea being made, and through the little galley window see Jon staring very intently at the counter, a little line between his brows as he seemed to think very hard.

They would really need to talk things over more before doing anything. It was hard to tell that to the sizzling heat in Martin's body. He felt warm and hot and heated, which were each just a bit different and each just as present.

He tried to glance at a clock to check how long the tea was taking, but Jon had none. Not a single digital or analog hung on his walls. Which was another little detail Martin was charmed by. He wondered how Jon told time, and if it was by appointments.

When Jon was finished, he only carried one mug out to the living area, setting it down on a coaster upon the table near Martin's arm.

Curious, Martin just watched him.

Jon met his gaze narrowly, and suddenly unbuttoned his waistcoat, throwing it aside. It landed gracelessly on the floor.

Then, Jon placed his hand on the sofa back, and folded himself down onto Martin. It was enough of a surprise, Martin grabbed him to help him sink down instead of the much more 'in-character' move of not doing anything at all. But Jon sat across Martin, his legs together over his lap, settling in to stare into Martin's eyes.

Martin put his arms back, and just smiled at Jon. "If this is how you act for my hosts, no wonder you're always getting punished."

"Is that something you'll do as well?" Jon asked, picking up the mug of tea and taking a sip before offering it to Martin.

"I haven't decided yet." Rather than taking it, he touched Jon's hand, guiding him to tip it so he could drink, then let go. Oolong, with honey. "Would you like me to?"

Jon's face became more serious. "You implied you wanted to do things differently."

"You could still earn a smack sometimes, if you like. My ideas aren't so much about that as… tone, I guess?" There was silver-streaked hair falling around Jon's face, and Martin tucked it back. "Do you ever let people say kind things to you?"

"I don't think they often have cause to," Jon said.

"Well, _that's_ not true."

"Is that your idea?"

"You sound skeptical."

Sighing, Jon shrugged one shoulder. "Yes. I don't see how it'll help. I tend to need…" He opened his hand, closed it tightly. "Something louder than the inner noise, as esoteric as that sounds."

"Kindness can be loud," Martin said.

Jon didn't say anything, but didn't look convinced. Instead, he toyed with the big wooden buttons of Martin's cardigan, pressing the hard edge into his thumb.

"We should lay down ground rules. Safewords. Hard no's."

Jon slipped one of the buttons loose. "Red, yellow, green. I know the drill."

"That's just for the House, really. Pragmatic, you know? I like personal ones."

"I think there may be more pressing matters." He loosened another large button and slid his hand along the soft knit. "The subject of compatibility."

"I still think we're—" Jon cut Martin off, his mouth pressing to Martin's in the same instance of his hand slipping under Martin's cardigan to run a palm from his chest to his shoulder, holding there for leverage.

It was nice, to be desired and having someone lean in to do something about the feeling. But also, it was very forward, and he couldn't just let Jon treat him like a pushover.

The planes of Jon's back felt smooth under his hands as he stroked up along them, getting a feel for what was hidden under that formal tidy shirt. When he reached his neck, he pushed fingers into Jon's hair and tightened sharply, dragging Jon back and away. Bending him like a bow, Martin watched his face carefully as his eyes squeezed shut and Jon clenched his teeth against the pull.

A hard little exhale escaped Jon before he seemed to lock it down, going taut.

Leaning in, Martin kissed his chin, then rested his forehead there. He could feel Jon's breath stirring his hair. "No, Jon." His other hand continued to stroke up and down Jon's spine.

Their position was perfectly serendipitous, like Jon had known beforehand. Still, Marting was careful, checking to ensure nothing was in the way. It'd be terrible to start off their arrangement with real bruises.

Once he was sure it was all clear, he pushed Jon right off his lap, letting his little side-saddle seat take him straight to the floor.

He went with a yelp, landing in a flump and half-rolling onto his back before catching himself.

Martin took a steadying breath and helped himself to the mug of tea, lifting his eyebrows at Jon over the lip.

From the floor, Jon reached back, rubbing the back of his head where his hair had been pulled. "Right. I deserved that."

"Mmhm." He took a bigger drink, because the oolong was really quite nice, floral and airy. His lips smacked as he set it aside on the coaster again. "Right-o. Don't do that again. I know you have manners."

"Sort of wanted to see what you'd do."

"Well, there you go. Now we're going to talk, and you can sit on the floor. Do you want a pillow?"

Jon shot him a _pissy_ little look at that, which made Martin grin. But he did nod, and Martin passed him one of the throw pillows. He rearranged himself to sit on that instead.

"I really do like safewords," Martin said. "I think they're nice."

"Then what's yours?"

"I'm not sure yet. Been years since I thought about it." His tone was bright; it was _fun,_ Jon was a wild delight, Martin felt wide awake and ready for anything. "Speaking of boundaries, obviously this is a bit of a scene."

"Do you have to hang a lantern on it?"

"Yes, because we're talking." Jon mouthed _'we?'_ at him. "You elected for the floor, Jon, I don't want to hear it. No, so, I need to know when we're in a scene and when we're not. Any time at Blackwood House is going to be a no, without question. But where is okay?"

Jon wrapped his arms around his knees and sighed. "Here, obviously."

"Does that include the studio or not? Either is fine."

His brow furrowed. "Not sure. Never during sensitive work. Though it's— it's unlikely I'd be in the mood anyway, when I'm working."

"Mutual not-at-work agreements, okay." Martin leaned his head on his fist, thinking. "Public comfort level?"

"Middling. I believe I'm fine with, like before, your teasing and— and touching, but nothing… active."

"That's about as much as I'm comfortable with either, so good. Nice and harmonious." He nodded. "Either we need a signal for starting scenes or an agreement to tap out if its a bad time."

"Agreed," Jon said. "I like the… organic approach so far."

"But sometimes I won't be up for it, okay?" When Jon nodded again, Martin relaxed. "Okay. So you are fine with being pushed around and presumably some punishment. I don't think I want to hurt you more than a bruise. You'll need Daisy for that."

Jon blinked at that and said, "Huh."

"Right," Martin said. "How does that make you feel?"

"I… don't know, exactly." His face pulled into a perplexed, ponderous look. "It's not… jealousy, per se. I don't know the word for it."

"But you don't like the idea of hiring anyone?"

"I need to think about it."

"Okay. Let me know when you figure it out, because that's fairly important."

There was gravity to Jon that Martin appreciated. After a moment, his face brightened. "I do know something else relevant. About the sexual aspect, you should know. I don't tend to… want sex, outside the— the context of being submissive? It's nothing personal. I still… enjoy other types of contact though, and, and it's not a hardline rule, sometimes I am interested!"

"That's good to know, thank you." He swallowed, and wondered if Jon had meant to make the logical leap there before he'd already done it. "So, you want to be together outside of scenes? That seems to be what you're implying."

Jon nearly continued on before coming to a sharp halt, his mouth a little 'o' of surprise. "Oh."

"Yeah." Martin tried very hard not to telegraph anything, to give himself away at all as he asked, "Are you— am I your dom or your boyfriend, I— I guess is the question."

Jon spun it around immediately. "What are your thoughts? Am _I_ your sub or your boyfriend?"

"That, I don't want to— to color your—"

"I'm not your client," Jon reminded him. Damn him. "This isn't professional. So."

"Haven't done that in a while either," Martin admitted.

Jon moved, shifting out of his curl to fold his legs lotus-style. "Then reframe it. More granular. Would you like to have dinner again? Would you like to— to go see the least terrible movies in theatre? Would you like to see each other on holidays?" He pursed his lips. "Because I would. Yes."

"Okay," Martin said, feeling very small all of a sudden.

"Okay. Is it okay? Because not doing that is, I could live with that. No, that sounds too unenthused. I could do that happily as well, I mean."

"I just," Martin started falteringly. "I haven't in a long time. I was kind of a different person back then? I didn't think… but you want to?"

"I do," Jon said emphatically. "And thus I don't think I want to hire anyone." He frowned. "Though I… no. Nevermind."

"Tell me," Martin entreated, latching onto the minute hesitation.

"Would…" Jon grimaced. "Allow me to make a fool of myself here for a moment, please let me down as gently as you can. Would Daisy want to…"

A bubbly feeling uncorked in Martin. "Yeah, she'd probably be interested in being friends. If you asked her. I can't say definitively, of course, but I get the impression."

"Right. Good." He nodded, seeming a little stunned. "I'd like that. It was always possible she enjoyed complaining with me about clients because she was on the clock, but I— I hoped."

"You'll have to ask to be sure."

"I will. I have her number."

Martin smiled. "You what? Really?"   
  
"Yes? Yes. We text sometimes. Is that weird?"

Daisy didn't text people. She _received_ texts from people. Even Gerry never got a reply from her, and flung messages and gossip her way despite the lack of reciprocity. Shaking his head, Martin said, "I think the friendship has sailed, then."

"Or sunk, as it were? Well." Jon smiled back, absolutely glowing. "Good. Anything else?"

Probably. There were always more steps in these situations. But Martin felt suddenly he'd be _on_ for a long time. The exhilaration of finding a long-forgotten muscle still worked was fading as the soreness of all that work settled in.

The rest could wait. Tipping his head back on the sofa, Martin took a deep breath, counted to eight, and let it go in a long, slow release. His head lolled a little as he nodded. "I think we covered all the vital bits."

Jon held up his hands. "I may be wrong, but I feel the scene is fading. May I get off the floor?"

A laugh puffed out of Martin. "Yeah, yes. Sorry. C'mere."

Using Martin's knee, Jon heaved himself up, unfolding from his seat. He moved only as far as it took to settle in at Martin's side, body draped loosely enough he could rest under Martin's arm. "Are you alright? Should we discuss aftercare?"

"You like pressure," Martin answered immediately. "I… might have to figure it out."

"Been a while?" Jon said, echoing him.

"Yeah."

"Well. If you're as out of practice as you say, you were still— wonderful." He cleared his throat. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble?"

"Honestly?" Martin shut his eyes, smiling. "I don't think I've had that much fun in a really long time. Probably since Tim tricked me into going to Paris last year for my birthday."

Jon asked very simply: _"How?"_

"Blindfolded me. Got all the other people on the train into it. Literally put his hands over my ears when the announcements came on."

"Dreadful man."

"Oh yes," Martin agreed peacably, eyes still shut.

"Would you… like to go to bed?" A hand rested on Martin's thigh, solid pressure.

For the first time, Martin found yes, he'd love to.

* * *

There was no way to tell that morning had arrived when Martin woke up, as the blackout curtains were pulled well over the windows, letting in no light at all. It was as dark as when he'd climbed into bed, enough so he fumbled for his phone to check the time.

Not too late, thank god. And some mystery person had plugged it in for Martin at some point, and it was nearly full.

Some mystery person wasn't around. Martin climbed out of bed, recovered his trousers and shirt from where they were neatly draped over the footboard. The apartment was chill beyond the comfortable confines of the comforter and sheets.

The living area was just as dark, not a single light flipped on. Either Jon had turned them off to let Martin keep sleeping, or he never bothered with them.

But the studio lights were on. Martin could see them beyond the cracked door.

He followed them, and finally got a look at where Jon lived.

The studio had enormous ceilings, twice as high as Martin would have expected from this part of the city. It needed it, apparently; there were braces and easels of all sizes, the largest about fifteen feet tall.

There were also, hung on hooks along the wall, everything from a stepstool to a seven rung ladder. It was suddenly very easy to imagine Jon working on a painting larger than he was, and the logistics required.

Along one wall were shelves with narrow, tall compartments, loaded about a third full with sheaves and wrapped parcels. The paintings themselves, waiting for attention.

Jon stood at an enormous worktable, standing on the spokes of a stool, leaning over something. His hands were flat against the table, his face pulled into a tight, angry frown.

There was, as expected, a dehumidifier running in the room. There were also, in perfect balance with this, tubes of chapstick just left on various surfaces around the studio.

Martin approached as quietly as he could, not wanting to interrupt.

As he watched, Jon straightened and reached above him. There were metal bars holding a digital camera in place. He fiddled with it, pressing the capture button a few times before finally sitting properly down and pulling a laptop over.

"Hi," Martin said, presuming this was a decent moment.

Jon's head whipped up, snapping him out of his concentration. "Martin. Good morning, hello." He hit a key on his laptop, and brushed his hair out of his face. It didn't seem to want to follow his instruction to flip a certain way and kept falling forward. "How did you sleep?"

"Like the dreaming dead," Martin said. It had been warm and Jon had an overabundance of pillows and listening to him breathe had knocked Martin right out. "How about you? You're up early."

"I never sleep long," Jon muttered, leaning in to peer at his laptop screen, reminding Martin of some long-legged bird on an awkward perch. "Always more to do." After a moment, he tore his eyes from the screen. "Ah, did you want breakfast? I can make something."

"Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Because you didn't want to wake me or because you don't usually?" Martin asked.

Jon pouted. "Plenty of people skip breakfast. Who's that hungry right after waking? It's a ridiculous meal, honestly."

Martin sort of felt the same about it; why breakfast when you could just have a stiff cup of tea and a scone? But looking at Jon, he felt he could be persuaded. "I have a little time before I have to go in. Make me something."

Jon closed his laptop and slid off his seat. "Is that a request or order?"

Waiting until Jon stepped close, Martin put a hand on his hip, leaning in to kiss his temple. "I don't have enough time for it to be an order, I'm afraid."

"Then say please," Jon said, cheeks warming under the attention.

Oh, he could do that. Grinning, Martin kissed the curve of Jon's ear, nosing his flyaway hair aside. "Please," he whispered, letting his lips brush skin.

Jon shuddered and hopped a step back, now _thoroughly_ flushed. "Do you have time to make good on _that?"_

"No," Martin answered. "Not a fan of delayed gratification?"

"Wouldn't you know, Mr. Blackwood?" Curling his fingers, beckoning, Jon led Martin back into the living area and kitchen.

"The file notes aren't that specific."

"Hm. Seems terrible sportsmanship, for you to know so much about my tastes and I none of yours." He flicked on the kitchen light and surveyed his surroundings like a man creating a battle plan.

Martin leaned his elbows on the counter, content with observing. "Well. You? Does that count?"

Jon gave him another of his flinty little glares. "Oh, stop. Is yoghurt alright? I have things for it."

"Sure. And I'm serious."

Jon took out a large container from the fridge and a jar filled with something the color of sugared blood. Fetching bowls, he scowled some more. "It's just a little strange to believe, especially considering how appealing you are."

"Uh!" Martin giggled, pressing his fist against his mouth. "Wow, what? Thanks, I guess."

Jon spooned out yoghurt and then the wickedly red topping. It looked like some sort of cherry compote. Then, he unearthed a package of candied ginger and popped a slice directly into his mouth before using a knife to roughly chop a few more up. "I have wondered… that. Unfortunately it's unacceptably vain to ask."

"Ask, what? Why you?"

"Yes." He dumped some sugary ginger on his bowl. "Do you want some?"

"Uh, less than you, but yes. Bit spicy."

"I like it," Jon murmured, but finished both bowls and passed one to Martin before stirring his own up vigorously.

"Do you want to know some things? To even things out?" He followed Jon's lead and tasted the mixture. Rich and tart enough to pucker his lips and honestly very nice. "I like your cheekbones and your eyes? And your hair."

Jon pointedly tried to stroke his hair back out of his face. "Yes, but you're… magnetic." He shoved a spoonful into his mouth and hummed. "What _do_ you like?"

"Well, dominance, obviously. But also taking care of people, and having them let me." He ate as he considered. "God, what else… Using toys on someone, especially when they're tied down and have to just sort of take it. So, edging, I suppose. Being teased, which you are already doing great at."

"Oh, good, I thought I was just being irritating and indecisive." He picked out another slice of ginger and bit into it.

"I think you know what you want," Martin said with a smile, delighted when Jon somehow managed to flush darker.

"At this rate, you'll have to stay," Jon said, almost confident, almost smooth if not for the shiver in his tone.

"I wish. God. Oh, shit." Martin remembered what was to come and started laughing.

"What? What is it?"

"The sheer amount of— of gossip and fussing and nosiness that's awaiting me today at the House. God, it doesn't stand to think about." He let out a dramatic sigh. "By nightfall, I'll have fired them all."

"Gossip? About… us?"

 _"Yes,"_ Martin hissed. "Jon, you should have seen the fucking tizzy when I had you in for tea. This is going to be be so much worse." He shook his head and licked cherry-tartness from the back of his spoon. "My life is very hard."

"So it seems. I don't understand what's so interesting, but alright." He placed his finished bowl in the sink and ran water over it before leaving it there. Martin finished his own with a massive spoonful, handing it down for Jon to do the same. "I should get back to the icon. It's in a state."

"Can I watch?" He checked his phone. "Can I watch for, uh, ten minutes?"

Jon smiled gently, ducking his head. "If you like. But you really can't touch anything. Hands in your pockets, please."

Let it not be said Martin couldn't follow instruction. He followed Jon back into the studio, noticing belatedly Jon was indeed wearing one of his paint-splattered pairs of slippers.

He climbed up onto his stool again. What was laid out in front of him was a wooden art piece, a very old board with some saint or another painted across it. The paint itself was peeling terribly, some slabs of pigment coming off in cracked chunks.

"Wood damage and poor fixative use," Jon said softly, pulling a pair of gloves on and picking up tweezers. He pulled gently at the cracked paint, removing fairly large pieces from the icon.

Martin stood over him, hands resolutely pocketed. "So, what will you do?"

Jon turned his head away from the icon, upward, as he sighed. Which seemed like a good bit of muscle memory to have when you were an art conservationist who was also frustrated most of the time. "They want the paint re-laid on the same wood. But it'll keep peeling off the damn thing over the next few years. I could make an identical wooden housing, but nope. We just love old withered wood," Jon said, a bit of rant in his tone. "So I'll take the paint off, hopefully in whole pieces, use some sanding tools to take off the layer of useless drek on top, and re-lay it all again with better adhesive and try to make it look decent." He shook his head. "This is my next three days, at best. If all goes well, which it won't."

"It might," Martin said, and took out his hand to lightly touch Jon's back, then start rubbing when he didn't startle. "Sometimes nice things happen."

"Not to me," Jon said. "You know, I could really just remake the entire wood piece, make it look extremely convincing. They'd never know."

"Will you?"

"No." His lip jut out again. "I have a terrible allergy to shortcuts."

"Okay. Hold still for a moment." When Jon glanced over at him, Martin bent to kiss him.

Setting the tweezers down, Jon touched Martin's cheek, gloved fingertips light against skin. His lips parted, and Martin took the invitation to touch his tongue to the hard line of his teeth, past to greet Jon's tongue. It was deep, but slow, and very gingery.

Jon's thumb stroked his cheek as he drew back. "You're leaving," he whispered.

"Have to face the music," Martin said back, just as quietly, and kissed Jon's brow, because he liked how Jon's eyes slid shut. "I… really had a nice time. You were right about skipping the novice talk."

Jon's nod was so self-satisfied, Martin laughed. "Well, yes. I was. Thank you for coming. When can we… meet again?"

"You can still come by the House anytime you want," Martin said. It had occurred to him how much it would hurt to have Jon just vanish from there. "But, ah, you said three days? We can do something this weekend?"

"You close early Saturday," Jon pointed out.

"Sure." He kissed Jon's cheek, glowing with pride at how Jon bowed his head at the attention. "I can't wait."

He had to head back in to grab his cardigan before he left. On the way out, Jon grabbed him by it, pulling him in to rest his head on Martin's chest for a second. Then, he let him go, and Martin left him to his work.

* * *

When Martin arrived at the office, Gerry greeted him with a chirpy but otherwise normal tone. No extra teasing, no prying questions, nothing.

There was, however, a silver balloon tied around the corner of his desk. It said _CONGRATULATIONS_ in obnoxious green bubble text.

Untying it, Martin stepped out into the lobby.

When Gerry spun in his chair to face him, Martin took out a pen and stabbed the balloon. It punctured loudly and rapidly began deflating.

"Aw," Gerry said. "Do you know how many corner shops I have to hit on my way in? Being in this part of town means no one is sensible and carries helium."

"What a hardship you've made entirely for yourself." Martin started his retreat back to his own office.

"Wait, wait wait!" When Martin paused, Gerry asked, "How'd it go?"

"How'd what go?" he said, then shut the door behind him.

It was foolish to assume that was the end of it, but he still let out a shriek when he turned and found Daisy sitting on his desk, her legs crossed, elbows on her knees.

She pressed two fingers to her ear, rubbing. "Loud."

"Don't _do_ that! Who just— just sneaks into people's offices and sits on their desks!" Martin gestured emphatically. "I have chairs!"

"Eh," she said simply, but did hop off to stand in front of him. "You have fun with Sims last night?"

"Why does everyone seem entitled to know about my— my—"

"Love life?"

"If you like." He sat in his chair, because it was a nice chair and it did make him feel a little more in control.

"Gerry wants to be the one to let everyone else know how it went. Start of the grapevine."

"More like a kudzu," Martin muttered.

"Me, I care about what happens to him. Especially since I got a small novel of text messages about how he wasn't going to come to me for sessions but could we be friends and all that."

A stillness slipped into Martin like spreading frost. "I… I have no idea what your feelings on that are. I encouraged him to ask, but obviously if that makes you uncomfortable, I'm so sorry."

"Pretty sure his text said something really similar, about not wanting to make me feel uncomfortable." She snorted, shaking her head. "Could bash your heads together."

The frost turned to a hard, vicious ice. "I'll talk to him. I'll make sure he doesn't contact you again."

Daisy rolled her eyes hard, letting her head loll backwards. "Oh no, I assume I made someone feel a smidgen less than comfortable, let me lash myself with one of the many flogs we have at the ready!" Snorting, she looked at Martin straight on. "Ease off, boss. Jon and I are going to try the friendship thing. Probably drag him out on an actual walk sometime. I think getting on and off his knees might be the most exercise he gets."

"Okay, you've lost me," Martin said. "Am I in trouble?"

"Nah. Just wanted to see if you and he hooked up alright."

"Oh," Martin managed in a small voice. "Uh, well, yes. Yes, I think we did."

Daisy lifted her eyebrows and leaned on his desk, palms against the hardwood.

For a moment, Martin allowed this, then squinted at her. "Are you… asking _how it went_ in a— a holistic sense, or—"

"Details, Blackwood."

"No!" He crossed his arms. "You're no better than Gerry."

She pointed at him. "That's untrue. Take it back."

"Get back to work, oh my god." He shook his computer wake with a whip of his mouse. "Surely there's someone paying you to torment them."

"Not for another thirty minutes." Pushing off the desk, she swung around to the other side, something leonine in how she closed in on him. "If you don't want to say, I'll drop it. But I am curious how it went, if he was good or anxious or what-have-you." She sat on the corner of the desk, near him. "Sort of figured we'd eroded all that, the… shyness."

It really was harder to navigate that part of it. The sort of shop talk that came with their industry would get most people scolded out of polite establishments. Still, Martin could feel himself blushing. "We didn't really… get to that point? So there's not much to say."

A rare look of surprise appeared on her face. "You haven't fucked?"

"No. I mean, _obviously_ we did the— the right thing, yeah? Discussing boundaries and parameters and making sure we're compatible."

She hooked her thumb at his computer. "Don't you have an excel sheet that covers all that?"

"It's not the same! We still had to do it right!"

"I can't believe you didn't even sleep with him," Daisy sighed.

"Well, I _slept_ with him, but I didn't _sleep_ with him."

"So you invited him back to yours?" She tsked loudly, shaking her head. "So much for doing the right thing. Did you get permission signed and printed in triplicate?"

"Fuck off," Martin said amiably. "Went to his. He insisted. Got to see him do some of his art stuff." 

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah! Pretty neat, but seems very stressful."

She hummed along. "Right then. Let me know when you finally get it wet, alright?" Standing, she put a hand on Martin's shoulder and squeezed. "I'm happy for you. I know you'll take care of him."

"Or else…?" Martin ventured, spinning in his chair to watch her go. "Is this a situation where you'll kill me if I hurt him?"

"You won't hurt him," Daisy said simply. "Later, boss."

And she slipped through the door to the green room, leaving Martin a little dumbstruck by that statement. _You won't hurt him._

Of course he wouldn't. Clearing this throat a few times, he spun back around to his desk, chest warm.

* * *

The end of the week went by without much excitement. Clients came and went, Martin endured the teasing of his employees with as much grace as he could muster. Sometimes this involved physically putting his hand on Tim's face to push him away, but Martin did it very gracefully. Just exuding calm poise and whatnot.

Jon did not text, which was odd. Maybe. Martin didn't know his texting habits at all, actually. He did take to leaving his phone on his desk instead of in his pocket, so he might see it when the screen lit up.

It didn't. But on Friday, Daisy did intrude again to ask him, "Why haven't you texted Jon?"

"Uh, excuse me?" Martin looked up from working through his inbox. Another errant mislaid message from P. L. for him to delete. They did always find their way to his inbox as the holidays got close. "Why haven't I what?"

"You haven't texted Jon."

"No, but… why do you know that?"

She turned her phone around. Martin couldn't read any text, but there were interspersed text bubbles. "He told me. About four times."

"Oh. I just, I assumed he was busy? With art things?"

"Not enough to not wonder," she looked at her screen, and then affected a lower register, _"whether my prior eagerness has somehow given him the wrong impression. Not that it would be wrong, per se, but it is poor form to telegraph one's desires so much."_

"Good lord," Martin said in wonder. "That's, uh. Erudite."

"I texted him back, _el-oh-el let me go ask_ , and now I just have a long line of," lower register again, very mocking, _"Daisy, stop. Daisy, come back. Don't bother him."_

"May I say, I'm glad you're getting on so well."

"Yeah, he's pretty alright. Anyway, please text him back." She left, briskly.

It was hard not to smile. Martin had known Daisy long enough to sort of know the projection of her relationships. She always started out somewhat stilted and quiet, prone to listening instead of speaking. But somewhere along the lines, a dam broke, and Daisy's simmering humor spilled out.

Jon had somehow already earned that from her. Martin found it terribly sweet.

He could text Jon. Thumbing open his phone, he selected Jon's number and found an empty message window. No chat history to speak of.

And yet, apparently somewhere in Chelsea proper, Jon was looking at the exact same screen. How completely ridiculous.

Martin's thumb hovered over the softkeys for a moment before he stabbed the call button instead, fumbling to grab his earpiece with the microphone and shoving it into place as the phone rang.

After five rings, Martin almost reconsidered and hung up, but the ringing stopped and the line was quiet. There was a soft fumbling noise and a metallic noise before Jon said, "Yes, hello, can— can you hear me?"

"Sorry, should I not have called? Are you busy?"

"No, no no, it's fine. Just wasn't ready. How are you?"

"Surviving the tide of teasing best I can. Apparently I should have texted you. I'm sorry, I actually really thought you'd be busy with paint stuff."

"I am," Jon said. "I am, ah, currently, muddling a few colors together to try and get the right pigment. You are on speaker for the moment, my apologies."

That explained the way Jon's voice sounded, slightly echoed. Martin could easily remember those high ceilings. "But no one is around, are they?"

There was a slight pause. "No. I had a client come by to drop off his latest acquisition from Sotheby's. Yet another island on yet another ocean." He coughed softly. "Ah, why do you ask?"

Oh. "Oh, not that," Martin said quickly. "I mean, we both agreed on mutual not-at-work arrangements."

"Yes, I suppose we did," Jon said on a long exhale.

"Yeah." Martin stifled a laugh. "Uh, but I was thinking about Saturday? If you'll still be free."

"I will make myself free," Jon said, his words measured out and slow. Martin imagined him delicately applying paint, the way his fingers would hold the brush. "Hm?"

"Hm?" Martin hummed right back.

"You made a noise."

"Did I?" God, he had to get it together.

… Alternately. He didn't have to. Swallowing down his hesitation to a safe place in his gut, Martin said, "I was thinking about your fingers around a brush."

Jon inhaled sharply and said, "You are _very_ lucky I was not mid-stroke there."

"Now there's a thought," Martin said. "Your hands, mid-stroke."

"Christ, Martin." There was the distinct sound of a brush being placed down on something. "I suppose I'll just take a break before you have me ruining expensive, gaudy icons."

"Sorry." Martin grinned. "I really can stop. Did you figure out a safeword yet?"

"Should it be a word I enjoy or one I despise? Vermillion or chartreuse?"

"Whichever comes quicker to mind. Isn't vermillion a fancy word for red anyway?"

Jon let out an afronted sound. "Don't antagonize me. It's unkind. Especially if you, ah, won't follow up on it."

"Excuse me," Martin said, voice lifting. "Are you soliciting me, Mr. Sims?"

"It's a very _specific_ red! Also poisonous, historically. Used in a lot of Chinese lacquer, that very distinct color."

"Like lipstick?"

"Like—" Jon scoffed and let out a strangled noise. "You are being very cruel right now."

With genuine interest, he asked, "Do you like it?"

"I… believe I do. Though it makes the wait for Saturday that much worse. Another twenty-six hours before closing time."

"That's very specific."

"I… well. I know when the House closes." The sheepishness was strong in his tone. Martin wished he could see Jon's face. Was he flushed? Were all the little remarks landing on him? Desire to know swelled in his chest.

"Or in five hours," Martin remarked. "If you wanted to meet up for dinner. Tonight."

That was not the plan at all and not the best idea Martin had conjured up recently. But Jon's gasp was gratifying, and the following silence contemplative.

"That's rather late. Maybe I should… bring you something? Would that be alright?"

"That'd be very nice. How close are you to being done?"

"Now? Within five hours. Text me your address?"

* * *

For his eagerness, Martin had to hurry home and tidy up, which hadn't occurred to him when he made the offer. He'd only thought about where Jon might be splattered with paint today, the nervous excitement that was coating everything he said, and how much Martin longed to see him.

Not taking into account that Martin hadn't had someone over to his place in over a year. Maybe two.

God, was that pathetic? Martin had never really considered it too closely. He was almost always at work, and when he was home he tried to just relax. His life had been stressful and hectic for so long, he often felt like he was catching up on a lack of respite. He'd _earned_ it.

Now, he checked the clock and hopped around his flat, making sure no laundry was left out, that his blu-rays were put away and not where a man of discerning tastes could judge them, and washed all the leftover mugs in the sink.

He had a whole menagerie of mugs, one of each animal he could find. A cat, a cow, two owls, a giraffe, and an octopus. He hoped Jon liked them, because somehow Martin didn't have any _normal_ drinking glasses.

Sighing, Martin checked the clock again. It was getting on in the night. He had time to light a candle that allegedly smelled like tuberose, and then hurriedly make his bed. Which was rare; Martin once read an article somewhere that said leaving a bed unmade was better for some reason, and had used that and the fact he lived alone as a longtime excuse to never fix the sheets and blankets.

He was contemplating dusting the shelves when there was a knock at the door.

On the stair outside was Jon, with a satchel over his shoulder and a plastic bag in his hand. "You live in _Balham?"_

"You brought food," Martin said, since they were stating the obvious and all. "Come in."

He locked up after Jon, who started taking off his shoes before divesting himself of bags or coat. "Why do you live in Balham?"

"Cheaper then bloody Chelsea. There's a nice theatre nearby. It's quieter." He helped Jon, taking the food to the kitchen. "Sorry for the trip."

"No, not at all. Just surprised. The owner of the most exclusive brothel in Belgravia, here amid the townhouses."

"There could be a more exclusive one that we just don't know about." He opened the food containers, willing to admit he was starving. The crisp cucumber smell of tzatziki and roasted lamb wafted out. There were gyros in soft pita, thick-cut chips with chunky sea salt, and a little tomato salad. "Oh, that smells amazing."

"I'm glad." Jon hung up his coat, revealing a dark red jumper with a fetchingly low v-neck. He looked nearly as delicious as the food, but for the flat set of his lips. There was a constant furrow to his brow, something Martin had seen before.

That ache in his heart returned. "Long week?"

"Yes. But fruitful, I believe." Brushing his hair back, he forced a smile. "A rare occasion when things didn't go horribly wrong."

"That seems worth celebrating. Let's eat."

Transferring food onto proper plates, they ate at Martin's little round table, close enough Jon had to cheat his legs out at an angle so they weren't right on top of Martin's. Though the warm press of Jon's ankle against his was nice.

He listened to Jon talk about his work; the restoration of the icon had gone shockingly well despite the many steps to the process, and he'd only took in one other piece this week. Which oddly enough was good, as he was perpetually behind on projects and always needed to catch up.

Martin's work was harder to talk about, given the levels of secrecy around it and how mundane Martin's own stewardship was. But it seemed enough for Jon, who drank water with fresh lemon slices out of the cuter of the owl mugs. Quietly, Martin thought he looked very nice against the warmer light of the flat, rather than the somewhat dour atmosphere of his own place.

There was still a tension to Jon, so Martin waited until they were finished eating before asking, "What would you be asking for right now, if you had an appointment?"

Jon gave him a considering look, like he expected a punchline. "I believe you were careful to reiterate several times that I'm not your client."

"You're not. I'm just curious, what would you want for— sort of this ambient stress you've got going on."

"I'm hardly stressed," Jon complained quietly, sipping his water. "I'm not certain. Probably to be hung from the ceiling. I tend to find that grounding, ironically enough."

Given what suspension required, the amount of restraint and pressure it needed, that made perfect sense to Martin. But he didn't exactly have the set up needed for that, nor the training.

The starting point was helpful, though. Humming, he considered what he wanted alongside what Jon wanted. They could fold together nicely.

"I'd like for you to make yourself at home," Martin said quietly, stacking up the plates. "Specifically, in the bedroom. There's a robe hanging on the door in there. Go put it on, and nothing else."

Jon's hands curled into fists against the table. "Oh. Alright."

"I'm going to clean this up. I'll be along in a moment."

He didn't nod or agree or do anything but stand, pushing his chair in and walking towards the bedroom. His steps were quick, though, which Martin took to be a good sign.

Washing and drying the dishes gave Martin time to settle into himself, heavy and certain. There was eagerness building in him, but it was tempered by a hidden wellspring of confidence he uncorked as he prepared himself. He'd done this before. And their test run at Jon's place had gone amazingly.

It would be fine. Drying his hands, Martin double-checked the door lock, then flicked off some lights as he headed to his bedroom.

The robe did not fit Jon at all. That was the very first thought Martin had upon seeing him. It wasn't that Martin was all that broad, he was hardly some body builder type, but Jon was what Martin could only call slight. So he held a hand clenched in the robe to keep it from sliding off his shoulders. But otherwise, he followed direction perfectly, all bare ankles and wrists and a flash of collarbone.

As Martin hoped, he did see some streaks of paint on Jon. Actually, more than usual. His hands in his own pockets, Martin stepped along to circle Jon, looking him over, and was inordinately pleased when Jon didn't so much as turn his head to watch.

Jon looked practiced in a way, eyes quiescently on the floor, breathing steadily.

"Did you come here right after work?" Martin asked cooly.

The question must have seemed odd, given the faint pause. "Yes. I didn't realize how long the train would be until I was finished with the icon."

Humming softly, Martin closed a finger and thumb around Jon's wrist and drew it out, in front of them both, sliding his other hand up along Jon's skin. The sleeve of the robe pushed up, and Martin traced over a really beautiful blue sky streak that followed the soft insides of his arm.

Jon bowed his head. "Sorry. I can wash up before next time."

"I like it. The color's beautiful on you." It was light, teasing, and he had a grip on Jon enough to feel the way his muscles tensed-released. Leaning down, he turned Jon's hand over, pressing his lips to his knuckles.

Jon floundered for a moment, eyes flicking around as he visibly sought an answer. "I spent a lot of time mixing it." There was a little upward lilt of confusion.

When he pressed on the edge, almost the entire streak of it flaked off in a large piece. A few flecks remained, so Martin let go for a moment to fetch a warm, damp washcloth. Taking his arm again, Martin swiped all the rest of the paint off, then pressed a kiss to the slightly reddened flash of skin underneath.

Jon tilted his head at Martin, eyes lidding. "What are you doing?"

"Taking stock of what I have," Martin said, kissing his knuckles again before letting go. He took Jon's other hand, untangling it from the robe. A splatter of pale green lay across his neck, and Martin let out a pleased little sigh as he started brushing that away as well.

Jon's eyes lidded further. "Seems a waste of limited time." But he tilted his head for Martin nonetheless.

"No backtalk unless it's a color."

"Hm. Beryl," Jon said quietly. "Which, artistically is green but I think a mineralogist would claim it comes in many colors."

"I could gag you, too," Martin said lightly as he ran the blade of his thumbnail down the cleaned span of Jon's neck. "Let me explore in peace without your mouth."

Jon bit his lower lip and inhaled slowly, shoulders moving. His neck flushed right under Martin's fingers, which was a treat to watch happen.

When he stepped back and returned to circling Jon again, this time Jon did move to try to follow him, eyes dark. A thought struck Martin, and he nearly kept it to himself before deciding to share. "You really are astonishingly pretty."

That hit Jon like a physical strike, his arms curling around himself, the robe shifting to drape around him in a way that reminded Martin very much of Jon walking around the House wrapped in a quilt like some recumbent prince as he drank tea and calmed down. He reached up and stroked his neck where Martin had touched him. "You…" Again, Jon visibly searched for words. "Have peculiar taste."

"I have eyes," Martin countered, standing behind Jon and putting his hands on Jon's hips. He fit really nicely, and Martin tucked him in close to his chest.

"Do you? Because—" Martin untied the belt of the robe and pulled it off. "Shit!"

For the moment, Martin kept his eyes up, on Jon's face.

Jon's expression was tight and a little defiant. Because Jon enjoyed dominance, but he wasn't always _submissive_ , was he? Having read Jon's records at the House was an unfair advantage, but it was one Martin was going to seize anyway.

After a moment of silent glaring, Jon folded his arms over his chest and turned to fully face Martin, as if he weren't a little embarrassed to be out in his skin all of a sudden. "Well? Go on," he said.

"I will," Martin told him cheerily. "Don't mouth off, or we'll have to gag you. I have a few. Do you have a preference?"

"No. Or, not ring gags." Jon made a face. "I don't like the mess."

"Color?" Martin walked around Jon and ran the backs of his fingers over his skin. He was very warm, long planes of dark skin broken up by a few random freckles. He touched his fingers to a few, walking them along the little scattered spots.

"Emerald." Jon bowed his head again, breathing, shivering every once and a while as Martin touched him.

"You're doing very well," Martin told him softly, bending to kiss his shoulder.

Jon bit his lip hard, eyes shut. The tremble in him was intense and a little miraculous.

Martin gathered his wrists, pulling them back so he could hold both in one of his hands. Keeping hold, he stepped in front of Jon and cupped his jaw with his other hand, lifting, bending Jon back until his eyes fluttered open, a gasp coming hard and fast.

"You're lovely." He kissed Jon at the hinge of his jaw.

"I'm," Jon started, a full body shudder breaking out over him. Martin felt his fingers flex. Very deliberately, he looked up at Martin, and said, "You're wrong."

Huh. Interesting. Martin turned that over in his head for a moment before nodding, and letting go of Jon all at once. Then, he caught him as Jon staggered a step.

"Hm. You'll look even lovelier with something spreading your lips. Stay there." And he walked to the dresser.

The top two drawers were normal clothes and the average contents one would expect from a dresser. The bottom, though, he opened up and surveyed his options.

Set into the bottom drawer were narrow compartments, clean white plastic, each holding some toy or tool he could use. His collection paled in comparison to what was available at Blackwood House, but... Martin smiled.

"We might need to go shopping sometime," he said idly. "I don't know if I have enough to corrale you."

There were a couple of gags available. The ring gag was immediately out, of course, but there was a nice classic cherry syrup red ball gag that Jon's lips would look great around. He picked it up, considering it for a moment.

There was also a cloth gag. Silk so smooth it felt like water through his fingers. The black threads shone brightly, with dark red florals spilled over the fabric along climbing vines.

Abandoning the ball gag for today, Martin wrapped the silk around his hand and kneed the drawer shut. Returning to Jon, he stepped up behind him and ran the back of his hand along Jon's spine.

His breath hitched, and he turned to look, eyes tracing over the silk as Martin stroked it against his skin.

They'd need another safeword. "Click your fingers," Martin said.

Without being asked, Jon clicked his fingers once, then twice. He'd probably done snaps before plenty of times.

Smiling, Martin pressed the silk against Jon's mouth. "Very good. You're doing wonderfully." Before Jon could protest that, that statement of pure fact, Martin pushed the gag into place, draping his arms around Jon's shoulders as he wound it back and tied it, gently keeping Jon's hair out of the knot.

With the gag fixed in place, Martin traced the smooth texture against his cheeks, cupping his face and kissing his brow.

Jon's hands curled around Martin's wrists as his eyes closed. A very soft noise was muffled in the fabric. Slowly, he touched Martin's hair, fingers coaxing into his curls.

Martin swallowed, and kissed Jon's temple. "You're really very sweet." Another soft noise, and his fingers tensed. "I want to see. Will you let me? _Can_ you let me?"

Jon blinked slowly, a fierce flush across his face. His brow furrowed and he see-sawed his hand. Uncertain.

"Okay. Maybe one more thing then." Moving back to the drawer, Martin retrieved one more thing, very important thing: restraints. "Now where is my stepstool…"

He needed the extra bit of height to stretch the cord through the hook that hung from the ceiling. It was long enough the cord hung around Jon's shoulders.

He watched with a considering gaze as Martin clipped a wide-band cuff to each end of the cord.

Martin held out his palm, fingers curled. "Hand."

Bowing his head, Jon rested his wrist in Martin's grasp, letting him wrap the suede-lined cuff around his wrist. "Snap," Martin said.

Jon clicked his fingers, nodding.

Letting go, Martin cuffed Jon's other hand. They hung around his head, elbows bent, swinging loose. Jon shifted from foot to foot, breathing out slowly, watching Martin steadily. The mix of interest and seeping calm in Jon's body was enchanting, how he just bent to it and looked to Martin for whatever was next.

"There you go," Martin murmured, stepping in until they were almost toe-to-toe. "That's better, isn't it."

Jon blinked, slow and sweet, and nodded.

Now free to appreciate Jon without any of those instinctive little counterarguments getting in the way, Martin put his hands on Jon with more purpose and direction. The direction being everywhere he hadn't already touched. He gripped Jon's biceps, dug his fingers into the muscles until Jon let out a groan, then framed his ribcage with his palms.

Jon looked down to watch Martin's hands. His lips parted around the gag were really very fetching; taking hold of his chin, Martin kissed his cheek through the silk.

Jon turned his head and made a few sounds, what could be words. His lips ran against Martin's.

Considering this, Martin asked, "Do you think you've been good?"

The concentration on Jon's face was adorable, the urges in him dueling it out right in front of Martin. He really had such a hard time accepting any kind things. But he wanted something. So Jon nodded, eyes downcast.

"So do I," Martin said, and hooked his thumbs in the gag, pulling it loose just enough to kiss Jon, just fast enough he couldn't get a word out edgewise.

An arm wrapped around Martin's shoulders. He looked, and saw Jon had pulled the cord all the way, one arm lifted straight up to give his other the slack needed to touch. He kissed Martin open and wet, a thread of desperation working into the way he dug his hand into Martin's shirt.

Breaking the kiss off, Martin slid the gag right back into place, reaffirming the knot as Jon mumbled at him. "Easy now," Martin said with a smile, kissing his mouth and the damp silk before pulling Jon's hands back into position.

When he finally let himself look, Jon was a feast for the eyes. Lithe and compact in a way Martin couldn't help but think of as cute, the line of his hips looking sharp enough to cut, and scattered dark hair curling wiry around his cock. No greys there, to Martin's faint disappointment.

Jon shifted from foot to foot again, looking at Martin expectantly. Right, he needed to do something with this beautiful man now that he had him, not just get lost staring at him. He was allowed to touch.

The stepstool was near enough Martin could hook his ankle through its leg and draw it close. Sitting down gave him a direct eye-line to Jon's cock. Which immediately flushed when Martin breathed against his skin, starting to harden.

The view was incredible; Jon seemed much taller from here, looking up along the line of his body to meet his eyes. He was watching as Martin wrapped a hand around his dick, squeezing hot flesh, feeling Jon's pulse hard and quick.

When a bead of precome started to run down the soft cockhead, Martin leaned in to drag his tongue across it.

Jon's hands gripped the cord, the ceiling hook rattling as he moved. His moan was stifled, but no finger snaps came. So Martin braced himself and settled in to work Jon into his mouth, wetting his mouth to slide him further in, enough to make a seal and suck at him.

Bracing a hand on a thigh, Martin felt the muscles in Jon's legs as he swayed, into Martin and away again, every time he caught himself. He couldn't seem to stand still. Martin curled his hands around his thighs to guide him forward, drawing his dick in further to swallow around it.

The cord slipped again, one of Jon's hands fisted impotently over his head as he dug the other into his own hair, breathing faster as Martin sucked him off as efficiently as he could. The dazed expression on his face deepened, his head lolling as he shivered all over and came suddenly.

It was hot against the back of Martin's throat, but, well. Some things were kind of like riding a bike. He swallowed, and held Jon's cock for a moment longer in the warm prison of his mouth, until Jon's head lolled the other way and he whimpered, hips jerking back from the sensitivity.

Martin let him slip free and kissed his belly. "Very good. That was beautiful, lovely. You did so well."

Jon's face pressed against one of his arms as he rode through little aftershocks. There were pinpricks of wet at the corners of his eyes. He really was just beautiful.

The shivers kept coming. Martin stood, kicking the stool away again so he could draw Jon against him. Arms around him, slung low at his hips, Martin held him in a firm grip.

Moaning, Jon got a hand in Martin's hair. He seemed to like that, petting through as he slumped against Martin's chest, his cheek against Martin's collarbone.

Martin didn't believe in destiny, but he thought it was very nice, how Jon just fit against him, key to affectionate lock. He rocked them slowly until the worst of the shivers abated.

Jon rubbed his face against Martin, then eased back to stare at him, still a little dazed. His gaze flicked down Martin's body, then back up, and his eyebrows lifted.

"Are you up for that, lovely?" Martin asked softly.

Jon shut his eyes, swaying again before he nodded.

Martin kissed his forehead. "Alright. How about this. You can have your hands or your mouth back. You have to pick one."

The little moue of concentration was wonderful, and Martin did nothing to hide his grin. Serious thought was happening through the slightly gummed up clockwork of Jon's mind as he deliberated.

Eventually, he shook his wrists. "Hands?" Martin asked, to be sure. At Jon's nod, he said, "Okay."

The cuffs could stay; Martin simply undid the links to the cords, guiding Jon's arms to lower slowly.

There was a whole thing he planned to do. Intertwining their fingers, holding Jon's hands, maybe kissing his knuckles again because Martin was a romantic to his bones, all that. As soon as he was freed, Jon pushed Martin backward, until he bumped into his dresser and instinctively braced his elbows back on it.

There was a ferocity to Jon's movements as he undid Martin's trousers and reached in to cup his cock. The soft-edged look to his face remained in place as he stroked Martin and pulled him out of his pants. For a man who worked so much with his hands, they were soft against Martin's shaft.

It was good, intense. He could feel it curling his toes, and just let it, let Jon work at him with a singleminded focus.

The smooth texture of silk ran over Martin's neck and jaw, almost-kisses dragged against his skin. The cascade of little noises from Jon sounded like nothing so much as moans muffled by a firm kiss. For a moment, Martin considered tearing the gag off and making that true.

Drowning in silk-gagged caresses, Martin shut his eyes, sighing contently. The build of pressure took a while; not that Jon wasn't incredibly hot to watch fall apart, but Martin's own arousal had become secondary to taking care of Jon.

He felt in a sense rewarded with the diligent attention. "Such soft hands," Martin moaned, rolling his hips a little into Jon's grip.

Jon rubbed his face against Martin's neck, almost tucking into his body. "God, I love how you feel against me." Martin gripped the back of Jon's neck, keeping him in place as he got close.

He buried his face in Jon's hair as he came, spilling into Jon's hands, coming unspooled. The rush of heat and snapped-taut tension was almost gentle; together, they moved, supporting each other. Jon let him roll his hips a few more times, riding the wave of sprung pleasure.

When he could move again, Martin pulled the knot loose and rubbed the wet from the corners of Jon's mouth. "Okay there?"

Eyes shut, Jon tried to lean on Martin again, happy to dump all his weight into him to let Martindeal with it. He nodded, mumbling something as he refound his position against Martin's neck.

It was very, very sweet, but Martin's knees quaked. "Over here, lovely," he said, coaxing, and shuffled them three feet over to sit on his bed. They fell back against the mattress.

Jon insinuated himself against Martin's side. It was utterly unsurprising he was a bit clingy after. Martin did his best to get his arms around him and squeeze him. Which made Jon squirm and resettle even more on top of Martin.

"Jon," Martin murmured, cheek against Jon's hair. "How are you?" When Jon just mumbled with incoherent happiness again, Martin squeezed him tightly once. "Use your words."

A laugh huffed out of Jon, across Martin's neck. "Celadon."

Martin sighed. "Is that another word for green?"

"Mmhm. It's, uh…" Jon lifted a still-cuffed hand, fingers waggling. "It's… ferrous… oh, fuck it." He put his arm back down, across Martin's chest. "I don't care."

Just as well; Martin wouldn't have remembered whatever pigment facts Jon told him right now. In a bit, he'd have to take the cuffs off and convince Jon they had to get cleaned up.

But for the moment, Martin shut his eyes and rested.

* * *

Morning spilled warm yellow light through Martin's home, a rare sunny day beginning outside as he tried to make breakfast.

Martin didn't eat breakfast usually, and didn't keep much on hand. Nothing so nice as Jon's hodgepodge of fruity yogurt stuff, but he could fumble through something decent.

He had plenty of incentive. Jon was sitting at his kitchen island with a sleepy expression, dressed in Martin's robe again. Arms folded on top of the table, he kept yawning, wide and showing his teeth in a way that reminded Martin very much of a cat. Between his expansive yawns, Jon looked just run out of bed, but quietly pleased, the lines around his eyes faint. He was swaying slightly in his chair, snatches of hummed melody under his breath.

It was doing things to Martin's chest. Warm, fluttery things.

So he muddled through eggs-in-a-basket, because he did at least have bread and eggs on hand. Sliding a plate over to Jon, he got to watch Jon's face illuminate, suddenly awake as food appeared.

"Paprika?" Jon asked hopefully.

"Oh, maybe," Martin said, and checked his cabinets. He found a shaker of the stuff, which may have been there for years, but was probably fine. He handed it over.

Jon yawned his way through a thank you as he dashed some onto his eggs before breaking the yolk.

He looked very nice in the sunlight, Martin thought helplessly.

"I'll have to head into work soon," Martin said softly as they ate. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Just lock up behind when you go."

Pausing for a sip of tea, Jon said, "Not afraid I'll run away with all your possessions? Your prized collection of animal mugs?"

"You could," Martin said calmly. "But I literally have a copy of your debit card info on file, so have fun with that."

Chuckling, Jon ducked his head, a smile fugitive on his lips. "Fair enough. I have some clients to handle today. Then…" He glanced up at Martin. "Is there a plan? For later?"

"How so?"

"Well, we… jumped the gun a bit on our next liaison."

Right, they had intended to meet up tonight, after Martin closed up the House. "Um. Dunno." He swished his bread around. "How was… last night for you?"

Nodding rapidly, Jon said, "Good. Good, yes," in a tight voice.

Worry curdled in Martin's gut. "Jon. Was it not okay? If we're navigating this together, I need to know—"

"God, no. Martin." He held out his hands, one still gripping his fork. "It was… surprising. I have no complaints."

"Okay," Martin said, uncertainty thick in his tone.

Grimacing, Jon put his fork down, crossing his arms and leaning forward. "It was… more divergent from what I'm used to than I expected. I'm still… processing it, I suppose. But not in a bad way." He looked down, away from Martin. "The presence of, ah. Genuine affection, it was more of a variable than I would have guessed."

"Rather than someone caring for you for pay?"

"Yes." Jon's brow furrowed. "Not in a bad way. I would still advocate for the benefits of a more transactional encounter. But being with you was… different."

"What about the actual scene?"

Sitting up abruptly, Jon squinted at Martin severely. "Would you like a Yelp review?"

"No, but!" He waved a hand. "Was it good?"

"Yes," Jon said simply. "It was very good."

God, he was frustrating. Martin inhaled deeply and sighed. "Right. That's all I get."

Flashing his teeth, Jon said, "For the moment. Maybe tonight I'll have processed it more."

"You still want to meet tonight." He hadn't really considered Jon would want to. It was very soon. But Martin did know flirting when he heard it. "That, okay, that's fine by me. I already have the time free, obviously."

"Excellent." Picking up his phone, Jon flicked it on and started to tap at it.

He was so intent, Martin couldn't resist asking, "What are you doing?"

"Checking movie times. And if there's anything available that's not completely tedious."

"You want to go to the movies?" Ah, there was that octave jump. He knew it was coming, inevitable and embarrassing.

Jon flicked his eyes up. "Yes? We are…" He cleared his throat. "Dating, yes? Movies are a decent first foray into an outing. Dark room, something distracting projected on the wall, less demanding than just going out for dinner."

"That's very sensible of you." Relentlessly so. "We could do dinner after. Dinner after a movie greases the conversational wheels, given the— the immediate shared topic of discussion."

Jon nodded, starting to smirk as he looked at his phone again.

Martin watched him. "I do get a say in the movie, right?"

"Oh, I _guess,_ if you don't trust my tastes."

"I'm just not sure yet if you're a pragmatic artist or a pretentious one."

"You have poetry on your office shelf, don't sit there and tell me you've never watched a subtitled film in the cinema before."

"Oh, now it's the _cinema._ We'll pop off down to the cinematheque."

"See? Precisely what I meant," Jon said coolly. "Do you want to see the Korean thriller? The new Waititi? Or the mystery pastiche?"

"Horror movie on a first date is a bit rough."

"Agreed, though it's the third now, I think."

"It's not," Martin protested.

"Oh, dear," Jon said, desert fucking dry. "That'll make anniversary plans complicated later."

Martin nearly inhaled his tea laughing, then descended into a cough. Jon tried to look contrite, but he was smiling faintly the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this could honestly use another pass but i've reached That Point where you just need to stop looking at the story
> 
> sooooo this is now three parts. because while writing this one i decided i just wanted to stick with them chronologically to follow their first steps into this. i still have the rest of the thing to tell. whoops.
> 
> thank you to everyone in the discord who said Martin was really hot in this story.


	3. sculpture

It was a dour day of constant misting rain when Martin arrived home late, and paused in the doorway.

The door had been locked, but there were lights on inside, and the shower was audibly running deeper in the house.

There was someone in his house, which was only unusual because it had been about two weeks since the last time that happened. At least the coat hung up by the door was familiar.

Martin changed out of his day clothes into something more comfortable before putting the kettle on.

As though summoned like a spirit to the cauldron, a damp-haired man with silver-flecked stubble appeared in the archway, the neck of his shirt dark from the lingering drips from his hair.

"Hi," he said, voice a rasp.

"Hey, stranger," Martin said, setting up mugs. "How was Amsterdam?"

Jon had been away for a while, to consult up at the Stedelijk over some new acquisition that needed a lot of work on it. He'd invited Martin to come along, claiming he could use someone decent around through all of the terrible dinners and standing around in a suit jacket. But Martin had told him that he didn't really like fancy parties anymore.

Jon hadn't asked for details, which was good. It was always a little odd, the history that trailed Martin like a tapestry. Plenty was in there that was hard to touch, and honestly it was difficult to ask things like, _'hey, so what happened back when you slept with people for money on the reg.'_ Just not decent conversation. So Jon didn't pry.

Sometimes, quietly, Martin wished he would. Just a little. After a few months, Martin was fairly sure Jon would be safe to discuss it with.

"Dull. I didn't get the contract anyway. Just ate a lot of tapas and caught up on reading and wished I was back in the studio," Jon said, leaning his arms on the counter.

"You didn't have any fun at all?" Martin asked, pouring hot water.

"I fly up there for nothing. They picked someone else. Why waste my time?" He sounded sore about it.

"Like, a week before you went, you were whinging about having too much work to get through anyway. Did you _want_ to be picked?"

"Hm. No. But it would have justified the trip." He looked up at Martin. "People rarely respect the time of skilled work. You know this."

"Uh," Martin let out a laugh. "I don't think most would put art conservation and prostitution side by side?"

"Don't see why not," Jon muttered, letting his head hang, shoulders lifting. He rolled them back, grimacing. "Hate flying."

"Aw, _mój kochanie,"_ Martin simpered at him, walking over to lean on Jon's back. He wrapped his arms around Jon's waist and let the majority of his weight rest on Jon, pressing down on him.

Jon let out a pleased noise, slumping further under Martin, his head on his arms.

"Did you come straight from the airport?" Martin asked into Jon's neck. He smelled like Martin's soap, sandalwood and citrus, which was unfairly pleasant. The desire to just nuzzle his way into Jon and the relief that he was back in London was heady.

"Yes," Jon said. Which made no sense, as Jon's place was much closer to the airport than Martin's. "I have enough clothes here." He paused, starting to lift his head, pushing back against Martin. "Is that alright?"

"Of course it is," Martin said, going dead weight across Jon for a moment before letting him up, straightening. "Just surprised. I'm always happy to see you."

Jon snorted, and pushed himself upright casually, as if he'd not been lovingly smushed for the last few minutes. "Yes, well. I brought you something, give me a moment."

He slipped out of the kitchen, so Martin finished up the tea. He kept soy milk in the house now for Jon, and because he'd learned it tasted nice in tea anyway.

He was stirring the tea when Jon returned with something wrapped in plain tissue paper. He tore it open himself, the ripping sound musical around them. "The most obnoxiously cute one I could find," he murmured, and set a mug in front of Martin.

It was a sheep, wide and rounded with a ceramic facade of wool. It stood on four little nubby legs and had a flick of a tail.

"Ohmygod," Martin said, picking it up. "He's adorable."

"For the collection," Jon said, picking up his tea mug, which was a turtle that Jon had also found in a kitschy shop somewhere in Chelsea.

"Thank you." He didn't let Jon get away to go hide in the living room, instead wrapping his arms around him.

"I'm holding a hot drink," Jon protested, but immediately slumped back on Martin's chest. "I don't know why I'm encouraging your drinkware menagerie."

"Because you're a sweetheart," Martin said, and kissed his temple. "I'm glad you're back."

Jon had no idea how to handle direct comments like that outside of a scene, and it was no surprise when he wiggled free, ears dark, and escaped to the living room.

After washing his new addition to the cabinet, Martin picked up his own tea and followed Jon, who had very obviously sat as close to the arm of the sofa as he could while leaving Martin room to sit. It was a long-unspoken thing, and Martin settled into the corner, letting Jon sink into his side with a sigh.

It could've been a normal night, with a movie and inevitably falling asleep there in the living room.

But Jon was fidgety. Even for him. He couldn't seem to get comfortable, and kept repositioning himself and thus also Martin.

There were ways to deal with this. Martin excused himself, making Jon sigh deeply as he was jostled out of his latest drape.

When he came back, Jon was still sitting forward on his elbows, apparently unwilling to relax back on the cushions without Martin there.

It'd only been two weeks, but god, he did miss this ridiculous man.

Quietly, Martin unlocked each of the two cuffs he was holding, readying them. When he moved in, he was quick about it, reaching to hold Jon by the base of his neck and pushing him down, forward to bend flat over his lap.

"Jon," Martin said expectantly.

"Ah, hm." His voice was muffled by his knees, but he sounded thoughtful. "God, what haven't I used yet? Veridian."

"I think you've said that one before," Martin mused, reaffirming his grip. "Arms back."

Jon sighed. "Then… phthalocyanine."

"Hush now," Martin said. He brought Jon's wrists together, and fit the wide-band cuffs around them. The plan wasn't to be very punishing, so Martin had connected them by three links. Just enough restraint to hold him, not to be uncomfortable.

When both sides were buckled, he let go of Jon, who sat up slowly, taking a deep breath. His gaze tipped up to Martin, already a calm tiredness settling into his frame.

Two fingers under his chin, Martin tipped his head further to examine him. He considered a blindfold, maybe, or possibly the whole sense-dep suite with the headphones. But Jon was already pretty weary from his flight. Probably didn't need it. So, nodding, he just tossed a cushion to the floor, and took his seat again on the sofa.

Jon, sighing softly, lowered himself to the floor and onto the pillow. When Martin spread his legs enough, he wiggled into place, his head finding a spot on Martin's thigh, eyes drooping heavily the moment he settled in.

Closing Jon in, Martin hooked his leg around the slumped man as much as he could, asserting pressure around Jon's body everywhere they touched. He felt Jon's fingers brush his ankle, but nothing more; he didn't have that much room to maneuver with the cuffs on.

Martin had always enjoyed this part of their relationship. It was his favorite— or, second favorite type of submission.

His favorite was a little more dynamic, though it involved the cuffs as well. Jon sat back on his heels, his wrists bound to his ankles, and a remote vibrator lodged inside him, the controls firmly in Martin's hand. The state he'd gotten Jon into, stunned and shoved through to the other side of desperate, before fucking him had been remarkable.

But after that? It was the quiet moments like this. Jon really took so little guidance to go under. Especially when he was stressed, it was somehow even easier to coax him down under a thick layer of instilled hypersensitive calm.

To Martin's slight dismay, he'd never actually been under that deep before. Subspace had never touched the edges of his mind, but from what he'd read and heard and discussed with other people in the business, it was almost like being so rooted in the moment, so grounded they felt nothing outside the now. A former client had said it was like meditation was a fetish.

Watching over Jon, Martin still didn't know what he was feeling, but the sight of his lips gently parted around deep breaths, his flush high on his cheeks, his eyes unlocked from anything approaching focus, all of that was enough for Martin. When he idly stroked Jon's hair, his eyes shut to just flickering eyelashes.

"Lovely," Martin murmured, tucking hair behind Jon's ear.

He was keeping an eye on Jon, of course. It wasn't as hands-off as it looked, but Martin could tell a lot from how he breathed against Martin's legs.

It could have been sleep. It wouldn't be the first time Jon had dozed off on Martin. According to Jon, Martin was an exemplary substitute for a bed. Which was Jon's idea of a compliment. Martin had long since made a decision to take it as such.

With Jon thoroughly taken care of, Martin didn't feel bad about changing the show over to something he knew Jon wasn't interested in. He kept the volume low and kept one hand gently tucked into Jon's hair, idly stroking his thumb back and forth.

It was nice for a long while, and eventually Martin could have just stirred Jon to take him to bed.

Before that could come to pass, Jon roused on his own. Little nuzzles against Martin's leg, followed by rubbing his cheek around restlessly.

With affection aforethought, Martin let this go on for a while, making sure Jon wasn't just getting more comfortable. But a low, thin moan escaped his mouth, and he pressed harder against Martin.

Tightening his hand in Jon's hair, enough to hold but not to hurt, Martin lifted Jon's head and met his eyes. "Jon. You want something?"

Jon nodded, his eyes sliding shut as he pulled against Martin's grip. He licked his lips, shining wet as he breathed steadily.

"Do you want me to use your mouth?"

A tiny frown creased his brow, and he shook his head. Which, Martin was just a little relieved? He'd get it going for Jon if he needed, but also it was late and Martin was actually pretty tired.

"Come up here, love," Martin said, and released Jon from between his legs. With a slow blink, Jon shook his head, unhappy with that development. "Shh. Come here." Helping him stand, Martin drew Jon onto the sofa, laying down.

The upset vanished from Jon's face like chalk wiped clear. He knelt on the sofa, and bent down, letting Martin catch him. Together, they laid Jon down, his arms still bound, his face tucked into Martin's collar.

Curling an arm around him, Martin tangled their fingers together and kissed the top of his head. "There you go. You're such a sweetheart, all sleepy for me." He inhaled deeply, and smiled; Jon's hair smelled like Martin's shampoo. "Every bit of you is mine, isn't it? You're so good when you're mine."

Jon mumbled incoherently for a moment, lips moving in phantom brushes against skin. Martin shivered and dragged his hand up Jon's spine, holding him dear and close.

A sigh drenched in contentment spilled from Jon's mouth. Then, in the same barely tumble of words, "G'd, I love you."

He didn't mean that, Martin thought immediately. Instinctually, he stroked Jon's body, touch light, taking in the shape laid against him. He was calm, the same injection of contentment he always had at times like these.

That's what it was. Martin closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into Jon's hair, squeezing him close to enjoy the shiver in his body at the attention.

They lay there until Martin's show was over and another show queued up automatically. It wasn't anything he knew, so clearly that was their cue to go to bed. Drawing Jon upright, Martin grabbed the remote and turned off the television.

For a moment, Jon just sat practically in Martin's lap, mouthing gently at his neck. When Martin nudged him back, he went, his blinking slow and heavy as breezeblocks.

Martin cupped his jaw. "Wake up, Jon. It's time for bed." He kissed him.

It was slow kindling; at first, Jon simply let Martin press into his mouth without comment or complaint. Then, Jon came back to himself in degrees, kissing back, licking Martin's lips slowly.

Honestly, there was no better way to wake up, Martin thought. Easing back, he turned his head to yawn. "Right." He took the cuffs off.

Jon, much more cognizant, pecked Martin's cheek. "Thank you. I, ah, I needed that dearly."

"Oh, I could tell," Martin said, smiling. "You just love it, huh?"

Lips parted, Jon sucked in a breath. It was obvious when he recalled his own drowsy declaration. "Martin, I…"

"You're fine, Jon," Martin said gently. "You were completely out of it. It's fine. I'm going to take it as a compliment."

"Yes," Jon said quickly. "I was… I was quite under your spell at the time."

"Uh huh." Yawning again, Martin looked away. "Bedtime now."

"Yes, right," Jon said, face still dark, a lingering flush from the remnants of his deep repose. "Sleep. That'd be good."

Nodding, Martin guided Jon upright and to bed, steadying his doe-legged boyfriend as he stumbled along.

His voice was still a little slurred, like his tempo had been turned all the way down, as Jon sat on the bed and turned to him. "Martin. What I said…"

"It's really fine," Martin reassured him. "You're not the first to say that in the heat of a moment. Especially with that endorphin cocktail and all." He undressed to his boxers and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold. "Brr! Get in here, Jon, I'm freezing."

There was a pause, as Jon looked at Martin, his eyes dark. After a long beat, he seemed to shake out of his trance and follow Martin into bed. "You could turn up the temperature a bit."

"I sleep better when it's a bit chill," Martin said, and happily wrapped around Jon. "And you're plenty warm."

Whatever Jon planned to reply, it vanished into his own yawn; his eyes slid shut, and he didn't bother opening them again. "Goodnight, Martin."

"'Night, love." Martin smiled into Jon's shoulder. "Glad you're back."

Jon let out a soft hum, and there was no resistance as they slid into slumber.

* * *

At some point, they really did need to gather some more supplies. The time rolled around fairly naturally when Jon sat on the floor of Martin's bedroom, watching him go through his toy drawer.

"Can't we simply borrow from the veritable trove you have at Blackwood House?" Jon tapped his fingers on his knees, waiting. Anticipating. His impatience was cute.

"No," Martin said, straightening. He didn't have so much as a single flog. Not even a belt he'd feel safe using. Honestly, he never liked belts. They just seemed a little Christian Grey to him.

"We'll need to run to The Store," Martin sighed.

"The store," Jon echoed. "Just run down to Boots to examine their marital aids."

"Get dressed," Martin said sharply. "Fairly nice, please."

"It's nearly ten," Jon pointed out.   
  
Which was sort of the point.

Martin had plenty of suppliers for his work. Most of the time, he ordered from a catalog and got some bulk supplies. The sheer amount of lubricant the House went through had been rather funny the first couple of months in its operation. There was an industrial plastic barrel of it in the green room to replenish all the smaller, nicer pump bottles everyone used.

But when he wasn't being practical and stocking for everyone, he liked the Midnight Store. It wasn't much further afield, down towards Peckham, and situated between the vintage stores and clubs with live DJ events. In comparison, the Midnight Store seemed rather unobtrusive; just a brick-front location with tinted windows and a woman with a gorgeous braided mohawk standing at the door.

Martin let go of Jon's hand to dig for his wallet, flicking through the various cards he had inside as he approached.

There was a violet lightbulb hanging over the door, and it made the woman's smile gleam. "Good evening, sirdame."

"Hi," Martin said, and loosened a card, offering it to the bouncer. "Martin Blackwood plus one."

She took the card, spinning it between her fingers. "Mister Blackwood, nice to see you again. Has it been a while?"

"Not too long," Martin said. "I remember the rules and mores."

"Excellent. Remember to make any purchases by three forty-five, we'll be closing at four sharp." She turned her gaze to Jon. "And their name?"

"Jon Sims." Martin reached back, hand splayed, and was relieved when he felt Jon's fingers slip between his. "Non-member."

"Your plus one is noted," she said, jabbing at something on her phone before handing Martin his card back. "Enjoy the Midnight Store."

She held the door for them, immediately letting them into a hallway lit by more violet lights.

Jon, who had been graciously quiet for this process, finally hissed, "What the hell was that?"

"Just security," Martin said.

"Who's security? I thought we were going to a shop."

"It's more of a bazaar? Think of it as a farmer's market for the kink scene." He put his card away.

"What membership was she talking about?"

"The Scarlet Glove Social Club," Martin said. "Listen, it sounds very posh, but honestly, as long as you have one person to vouch for you, it's dead easy getting in. They just like all the pomp and circumstance around it. It's mostly just part of the fun."

Jon scoffed softly, but he walked so close to Martin, their hips bumped together. "This isn't some elaborate trap I'm being walked into, is it?"

"Would I do that?" Martin grinned at him. "Relax. This is much more lowkey than some others. There's one up in Edinburgh, where if you're a sub, you _have_ to wear a collar to enter, which I always found kinda gauche."

His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Agreed. I'm glad instead of that, we're just let into a very unsettling storefront with overdramatic lighting."

"We can leave if you're uncomfortable."

"Oh, we've come this far," Jon said.

At the end of the hallway, there was another door, and Martin led Jon through.

The Midnight Store was a wide open space filled with tables and booths and a few areas enclosed by hung curtains. It was much better lit in here, with many booths having additional lighting rigs to display their merch better.

There was, frankly, everything. Some things that wouldn't look too out of place in a farmer's market; handpoured candles, scented massage oils, and custom clothes that hung on wooden hangers. But there were also corsets and leather and costumes that weren't going to fray at the first wash.

The glass case of hand-carved wooden dildos and plugs were nice, as well as the the more traditional dildos that managed to come in colors _other_ than pink and purple, unlike in online shops.

There was a silk gag with a comfortable-looking bit. Martin picked it up.

At his side, Jon sucked in a breath. "Oh. We can really just— right."

"Yep. We pay on the way out. Want to grab a hand basket?"

There were probably two dozen little shopfronts squeezed into the Midnight Store, and a clear path set up. Little clutches of people as well as single shoppers moved along the row, pausing by interesting displays, sometimes consulting with the makers of more tailored goods.

Jon held the basket, and Martin kept an eye on his posture, trying to be hyperaware of him. So far he seemed nervous, but in an excited way. Following Martin's lead, but eyes focused and narrow on all the wares on offer.

There was a booth with an array of various hung whips. From soft, furred textured lashes to a vicious-looking nine tail. He took one down, smiling, and tested it between his hands.

Turning, Martin tapped the supple, whippy riding crop against Jon's chest. "This one might be nice."

Jon's eyes were wide enough to see the whites and he touched the little fold of leather at the tip. It was all a nice, rich, brownish red. "Ah, yes. Yes, I think that'll do fine."

"Great." Keeping it in hand, Martin tapped it against his thigh as they walked, aware of how the sound split Jon's attention, his gaze slipping away and back to Martin over and over.

The lingering nervousness radiated from Jon for a while.

Then, very deliberately, Jon shut his eyes and took a deep, full-lunged breath, exhaling very slowly. When he opened his eyes, he seemed calmer. Aware and relaxed. "What else do we need?" he asked, as if they were hitting up the grocery store on their way back to Martin's house.

"Up to you," Martin said, and tapped the crop against Jon's side. The look Jon gave him was electric and needle-sharp. Every time he saw it, Martin was delighted.

Jon picked out another pair of cuffs ("The pair you have need a break.") and a bottle of nicely scented oil. As he put the latter away, he mentioned, "Would you do my arms sometime, after I've been working?"

"I could be convinced," Martin said. "If you're very good."

"I can be good," Jon murmured, lifting his chin as he meandered down the shop alley.

They entered the place of mirrors and costumes and corset fittings. All the clothing stalls were gathered around close. Some people walked straight past this area while others lingered.

"You never seemed to like roleplay scenes," Martin mentioned idly as he admired the boning of a corset.

"Hm, no. I didn't often see the point. More organic scenes have always appealed to me." He did look at a rack of costumes, giving that perturbed expression again. "Why would I want to be a vampire, for instance?" He tilted the appropriate costume out.

"Is that a serious question?" Martin asked, eyebrows lifted.

"No. Obviously some people are attracted to the concept of being bitten." He grimaced. "Just seems… incomplete without a genuine way to create the— the facsimile of being bitten."

"Uh huh," Martin said, moving to stand near him and leaning on the edge of the stall. "And the rest of it? No appeal there?"

"The rest." Jon furrowed his brow. "The… origin of the vampire myth and its popularity as a metaphor for the declining extravagance—"

"Oh my god," Martin laughed. "No. Jon. I mean, maybe if you're really into that specific angle of it and have some degrees, but." He held out his hands expansively. "The— the wider, you know, bits of the roleplay."

Jon frowned and didn't say anything, flicking through more hangers of clothes.

"So that's a no," Martin said wryly.

"I'm sorry I lack your encyclopedic understanding of the nuances of human psychology as it pertains to dressing up as a— a maid." He pivoted another hanger out, a perfect _de rigueur_ French Maid outfit.

"Okay. Mean, Jon." Martin tapped his shoulder blade with the crop.

Jon stilled and bowed his head. "Right. Sorry. It's just something I never understood."

"I've worn that before, you know," Martin offered up, nodding to the tight black top, the poofy skirt.

Blinking, Jon turned to look at Martin. "You have?"

"Mmhm. There's a lot tied up in it. My client enjoyed the performance of it." Sidling in, Martin leaned on Jon's back as he kept looking at the costumes. "Everyone gets something different out of it, but there's some broad strokes. Like… the idea of service, of course. But also of station, being beneath someone, being paid. Also, the transgression of it." Jon tipped his head, listening, so Martin explained further. "It's a common power fantasy, someone who employs you taking advantage. It plays in specific submissive ideas. Not just how the outfit looks."

His last client had found it very appealing. His idea of irony, probably.

"That," Jon said quietly, "seems very obvious now that you say it. I suppose…" He flicked through more costumes. "The _roles available_ never really felt interesting to me. It's a commedia dell'arte of stock personalities."

"Hm." He reached around Jon to flip through the rack himself. A blue, rather low-cut outfit with a shiny star badge. "You have plenty of trouble with authority."

"I seek punishment," Jon said. "That's different. And never from a cop."

Martin huffed a laugh into Jon's hair. The next was a labcoat. "The doctor will see you now," Martin murmured.

"I don't want that relationship with my GP."

"Again," Martin said with exaggerated patience. "Think broader."

Taking over again, Jon went through the options. A glance, then flicked aside. A glance, flicked aside.

His hands faltered for just a moment on a hanger, where nothing but an apron hung. Shoving all the costumes back to the other end of the rod, Jon stepped back and forced Martin to do the same. "Onward?"

"Sure," Martin agreed, moving to let Jon step out of the stall.

He glanced back at the clothes, and gently nudged the one loose, looking at the apron for a moment.

Not today, Martin decided. But he would certainly keep it in mind for the future, how it tangled into soft knots with everything else he knew about Jon.

For now, Martin followed Jon, and found him speaking animatedly with someone selling body-safe paints, pointing to colors with a keen expression. That was much more predictable, and already Martin could imagine what an art conservator could do with them, what it'd feel like to sit still through ticklish strokes of a brush. Or would Jon use his hands?

A few pots of water-based paints were added to the basket before they left, opaque black bags in hand.

It was very late by then, far too late for the Tube, so they piled into a black cab for the ride back. The bags sat at their feet, and Jon slowly eased his head down on Martin's shoulder.

"I feel like I've just ventured through hedonist Narnia," Jon murmured.

"I think that's just Wonderland?" Martin mused back, taking Jon's hand and holding it. "Did you have fun?"

"I believe so," he replied softly. "I… assumed I knew all of it. The parameters and nuances of what we do."

"There is always more. People are creative. They come up with new stuff all the time." He stroked Jon's hand with his thumb. "I'm proud of you."

Jon scoffed quietly. "Martin."

"I'm serious. It's a bit different from secret keycodes to exclusive brothels with a bunch of NDAs."

"I liked it, alright?" He sounded very sulky as he said so, and Martin smiled. "I could say with some confidence I was not the strangest person in that building."

"Well," Martin said cheerfully. The baleful glare Jon shot him was just visible as the street lamps rolled by, there and gone and there again in sodium light. "You were the loveliest."

Jon tucked his head down, away, unable to look at Martin any more. Which was fine. He was warm against Martin's side all the way home.

* * *

The sound of a crop cutting through the air and landing was among the most satisfying noises Martin knew. The _fwip_ as it swung, arched, and the flat _tmp_ sound punctuated by Jon's sharp gasp. That was wonderful.

The skin was hot under his palm as he touched the little mark, listening to Jon hitch a moan.

"Tell me what you did," Martin said, turning the crop so the very tip of the flared leather could follow Jon's spine.

Jon turned his head away from the pillow, and his arms pulled at the cuffs holding him to the bedposts, wrists turning until his fingers could clench in the bedsheets. "I… I…"

"Do you need help concentrating, Jon?"

His eyes clenched shut, biting his lip.

Martin directed the crop to brush Jon's mouth. "Stop that. You'll bleed. You're not going to make another mess, are you?"

"No," Jon said quickly.

 _Fwip, tmp._ The muscles of Jon's shoulders and around his ass clenched at the crack of pain. With his lips parted, he groaned, then hid his head against the pillow as he flushed.

Martin pressed the crop over the red mark. "Tell me what you did, Jon."

A sharp gasp escaped his mouth, and Jon tried to lean away from the sharp sensation. "I forgot dinner, I forgot, I'm sorry." He inhaled sharply. "I got too caught up, I didn't think of— you." He blinked, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He rubbed it into the bed. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"What are you thinking about now?" Martin asked, satin soft as he dragged the widest bit along Jon's tense arm, gentle as a caress.

The next hit was just a tap, but Jon's entire body jerked.

"Jooon," he sang, pushing the crop down on Jon's head.

His entire body went lax again, his dark brown eyes dazed. "Mm. You. Love you."

Okay. Martin couldn't swallow down the choked noise he gave at that. It was fine. _Completely fine._ He resisted the urge to swing again, to jostle Jon away from that thought. Instead, he gave Jon one broad strike over his buttocks, because they were _right there_ and perfect. "How do I get you to remember an anniversary dinner, Jon?"

A molasses-slow blink, and Jon smiled. "S'was a week ago."

 _Twap._ Jon jumped, but giggled incoherently against his arm, so Martin gave him another. "Martin!"

"Color."

"Malachite."

"Smart-arse." Another whip over his cheeks, and Jon's legs tried to bend, rattling against the cuffs around his ankles, tying them to the bed.

Little pink and red marks stood out against Jon's skin by the time Martin set the crop down, resting it on the bed near Jon's head. His eyes were dilated as he looked at it.

Martin ran his palm down Jon's back, drawing hisses from Jon as he pressed on each lingering mark. "Uh— fuck," Jon said as Martin's palm cupped his arse, fingers digging in.

"What are you thinking of, love?" Martin asked, bending to kiss Jon's spine.

"You, you, Martin, please," Jon said, begging, starting to pull his body between the headboard and the footboard by his cuffs, rocking.

"Are you?" Settling on the bed between Jon's knees, he smacked an open hand against his arse. "Are you thinking of me while you're rutting against the bedsheets?"

Again, Jon laughed, bright and hysterical. "Oh, Martin… Of _course_ I am," he managed.

The flip in Martin's stomach wasn't worth remarking on. He was glad Jon was securely tied down, lest he see how pink Martin's face was getting. His voice was steady as he said, "That's what you want then, isn't it? You want me?" He tugged the belt of his robe open, and took the bottle of oil out of his pocket. "Do you want anything I'll give you, Jon?"

"Yesss," Jon sighed, nodding, rubbing his face against the bedsheets. "Anything, do an— anything. Hit me, fuck me, anything, Martin."

A pinpoint of warmth in Martin's belly unfurled and suffused up his chest, like smoke rising. Bending, he kissed the small of Jon's back.

"Anything I want," Martin agreed. Pouring some oil out, he slicked up his own cock, taking his time to spread the oil around. He almost said something more, told Jon _'You're everything I want,'_ the truth sitting heavily across his tongue.

He swallowed it back and cupped Jon's reddened cheeks, sliding his dick between with a low moan.

The entire bed rocked and started to squeak as Jon pulled against his restraints, lifting up into Martin's movements. Which was very sweet of him, honestly. But Martin pinned him flat and fucked into the oiled glide of his arse, crushing him down into the bed, pushing sharp, gasping noises out of Jon's mouth.

"So good," Martin moaned, pausing to get more oil on his cock. "You're so good, love, anything I want."

Shoulders bunching as he pulled at his hands, Jon ground out, "Fuck me, please, please, please." His breath hitched so sharply it sounded painful. "Martin, j-just—"

Fine, yes, yep, that sounded good. Martin eased his hips back, then pushed directly into Jon with one long thrust.

Jon threw his head back and yelled wordlessly, so loud Martin was _quite_ relieved he didn't have any direct neighbors, because they would have heard that, the sound of a man rapturously given exactly what he wanted.

Grip on Jon's hips, Martin fucked him, a brisk pace with all his weight on Jon. It ground Jon harder into the bed, and Martin came as Jon did, clenching around his cock.

After a few little jerky rocks of his hips, Martin sank down, resting his cheek against Jon's back, the skin hot and shining with sweat. He managed one more cant of his hips before settling, his breath against the feeling of Jon's chest moving.

He couldn't stay. He was probably smushing Jon a little, and he needed out of the cuffs anyway.

Just as soon as Martin caught his breath.

Dozing for a while was fine, until Jon started to murmur drowsily, the post-coital haze loosening. "M'rtin."

"Mm hm," he hummed, struggling to get his arms under him and pushing upright. A little noise hissed out of Jon as Martin's skin unstuck from all the red lines and marks. "Shh, I've got you."

Legs first, because Martin was right there. He took the cuffs off, leaving them hanging from the posts to be dealt with later. Bending one leg out of his way, Martin staggering to his feet, rubbing his face before moving to Jon's wrists next.

Dark eyes followed him, and Jon smiled at Martin, the curve of his mouth easy and demure. "Hi," he said hoarsely.

One wrist free, Martin bent to kiss Jon's temple. "Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

A little affirmative grunt was all Martin got. Once the cuffs were all off, he sat at Jon's side, drawing Jon up into his arms.

The way Jon sprawled across Martin was graceless and greedy, his arms twining around Martin to touch as much skin as possible. For a while, Martin was a little nervous about doing this naked with Jon, as strange as that seemed in hindsight. With all those years out of the more physical aspect of his work, Martin had softened all over. He wasn't sure if he'd fit into any of his old clothes anymore.

There was no sense that Jon noticed or cared in moments like these, when he seemed eager to press their bodies together so adamantly, like they could meld together. Jon's hands linked, wrist in palm, around Martin's waist as Jon continued to nuzzle into him.

"We'll need a wash," Martin pointed out, kissing Jon's hair.

Jon hummed back.

"You okay, there?"

Another pleased hum. He pushed harder against Martin, until Martin realized what was happening, and he let Jon gently knock him over, onto his back.

He was such a slight thing, Martin thought. Seemed too narrow to hold so much…

Martin cupped his head, stroking his hair.

After a moment, Jon mumbled, less happily. "Ugh. Messy. I'm sticky bloody _everywhere."_ He winced. "A-and fairly sore."

"Wash first, then menthol cream. Then telly on the sofa?" There was a pint of ice cream that Martin was craving now.

"Let's see if I can walk," Jon said. "That's the real question."

Watching Jon walk along on wobbly doe legs was one of the many joys of Martin's life. Smiling, he got up to help. Washing would go faster together.

* * *

Martin had been raised by his mother and had lived in the same tower apartment for many years before he'd started working. Most times, it was a relentlessly modest life, quiet and still. There wasn't much room for anything else.

He'd grown up sort of used to the stillness, mostly because he lacked a point of comparison. Only later did he get a taste of how out people lived.

It had been fine, except that every time something went wrong, it had become a life-altering issue.

For example: Martin had gotten sick when he was fifteen. Really sick. A cold had lingered for weeks, then moved down into his chest, and he'd gotten a vicious case of pneumonia. His mother had been swift to point out that if he'd taken care of the cold, he wouldn't have gotten worse.

That was a long time ago, but it meant that when Martin started to feel a tickle at the back of his throat, he drank fizzy vitamin C boosters and preemptive cold medicine, and hoped.

Still, it came, like a stormhead cresting over a mountain peak. Inevitable and foreboding and just the _fucking worst._

As a pressure started to form behind his brow, Martin crumbled beneath it, laying his head down in his arms. His office was quiet, the din of noise from the lobby distant, both through the door and through the fog starting to fall over Martin's head.

He must've dozed off. When he woke up, his head was starting to throb, and someone was pressing cool fingers against his forehead.

Being asleep hurt a lot less than being awake. Martin groaned in annoyance.

"Hey, boss," Gerry said, owner of the cool fingers. "You don't look great."

"What a coincidence, 'cause…" He trailed off, shutting his eyes. "Fuck."

"Uh huh." There was a bustle of movement around Martin as Gerry moved. He shut Martin's laptop down, took his phone, packed his bag. "Well, you know the rules! Go home. Don't show your face until you're not a plague vector anymore!"

"That's for the hosts," Martin pointed out, reaching for his bag with a scowl.

"I envision a future," Gerry said, skipping back, out of Martin's reach. He held out the bag like a carrot on a stick. "A future in which we have to shut down for a month because our esteemed host of hosts wouldn't go the hell home and instead got everyone sick."

"I'm not going to get everyone sick," Martin complained, but when he stood it was a distinctly lumbering action, his limbs feelings like fallen logs to be unearthed. He put a hand over his face. "How do I already feel this terrible?"

"That's how it happens, isn't it? You go to sleep feeling fine, wake up a spectre of death. Which, you look like." Gerry continued to coax Martin along through the door. "Go downstairs. I'm going to call you a cab."

"I don't want to," Martin said.

"You sound like a petulant child," Gerry told him, finally handing over the bag. He went over to the computer, returning to his rollie chair to click at his screen quickly. "Oh, look, I already summoned a taxi! You know what would be terrible? If this poor driver suddenly didn't have a fare. Dreadful."

"This is insubordination," Martin said. Shouldering his bag tipped his balance, and he listed to the side, swallowing another groan. "Fine. I'm going."

"Try not to die! We don't have succession plans."

That was not particularly comforting, and Martin was tired enough that his sense of humor felt deflated. Nodding, he went to the elevator and left.

  
  


Not having to worry about the drive was good. As Martin sat quietly in the back of the cab, he felt his strength spilling from his grip. Trying to take the Tube back home would have been dreadful. As it was, he pressed his head against the window, enjoy the coolness of the glass. With his luck, he would have missed his stop and wound up at the end of the line anyway.

Dropped off at the end of his walkway, Martin tipped the driver some amount of money that didn't matter, then worked his way up the three steps and inside.

Then what?

Martin locked up behind himself and blurrily thought about what he should do next. There was tea to make and maybe a lukewarm shower to take, his temperature to check, and maybe some canned soup worth heating up.

First, he abandoned his shoes by the door and sank onto the sofa, extricating his phone from his bag.

 _'Have to cancel tonight,'_ Martin typed slowly. _'Something's come up.'_

The little bouncing ellipses of Jon replying appeared, vanished, appeared, then vanished again, until Martin just sank back against the sofa, shutting his eyes.

Eventually, his phone did chirp with a message. It took long enough, Martin felt himself hauling himself away from sleep. _'Alright. I'll see you tomorrow then.'_

Maybe he'd feel better by tomorrow. Maybe he just needed one good night of sleep. That'd be nice.

* * *

Tomorrow, he didn't feel better. Tomorrow, Martin felt like someone had stepped on him. And not in any enjoyable sense, like with nice shoes, but crushed him underfoot.

He texted Gerry as much, then texted Jon to cancel on him again. The twinge of guilt was swept away with a wave of nausea. Just the trip to the kitchen to find an emergency package of crackers was enough to wind him.

Ever since he'd gotten sick, the rest of his childhood and into his adult life, Martin had always had trouble with breathing when he was sick. Whatever illness everyone else got, he got the meaner version thereof.

He fully intended to sleep through it, trying to dull the aching and the coughing fits but being conscious as little as possible.

But a sound woke him. Knocking at his door.

It kept coming, and Martin moaned in despair. Forcing himself upright made everything just… ache. There was no epicenter of hurt, no source. He just felt it all over as he stood and shuffled to the door.

When he opened it, Jon stood on his entry mat, his own key to the house held in hand as if he were deciding whether to use it.

The frown on his face went slack as Martin leaned on the door. "I— Martin. I… you look dreadful."

His lips were chapped like a drought. He licked them best he could before saying, "Bit under the weather."

"No fucking kidding," Jon said with a sudden burst of vulgarity, pocketing his key again and pressing his hands to Martin's feverish skin. There was no way to swallow the desperate moan; his hands were so soft and cool, they felt amazing, they were the best thing Martin had felt in two days. "God, I thought that… well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I had no idea you were sick."

"Came on fast," Martin mumbled. "I… need to sit. Like, right now."

"Right, yes, you look about to fall over with the first breeze." Jon, rather than taking the sensible exit, drew Martin's arm over his shoulder and kicked the door shut with a heel. "You're sweltering, Martin, good lord."

"You can't stay," Martin said. Even so, his eyes shut, his eyelids so fucking heavy he couldn't keep them up. Jon knew the house well enough to lead him safely, and when he felt the sofa, Martin sank down onto it. "You'll get sick."

"And I'm to leave you to languish infirm and perish? No." Cool fingers ran through Martin's hair, and oh that was so nice. "Have you taken medication yet today?"

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Don't think so." Something caught in his throat, and he coughed again, hiding it in his sleeve.

Jon hurried away, towards the kitchen. When the coughing stopped, Martin needed to catch his breath again. Once he could, he managed, "If you're staying, take some vitamin C. I h— have tablets. Take one. Take two!"

"Stop talking," Jon called back. "You sound awful."

Everyone was so mean when Martin was sick, he silently lamented. It was terrible.

It was likely he dozed off again. He already felt half-conscious, so the path to sleep was pretty short. But every nap seemed short as well; soon, Martin was startling awake again as Jon sat on the arm of the sofa, armed with a fistful of medication, a thermos tucked under his arm, and a glass of ice water. "Hello. I have pills. And I've set my phone alarm for your next doses."

Martin let out a soft noise of celebration before taking the medicine. Glass in hand, he pressed its cool surface to his cheek.

Jon did one better, tucking his fingers into the cold water before painting it across Martin's flushed skin.

Martin sank back on the cushions, sighing. "Feel terrible."

"Have you eaten?"

"No. Please don't feed me right now."

Jon almost pouted, but nodded, and instead drew Martin to the side, until he draped over Jon's lap. Retrieving a piece of ice, he held it in his hand as he stroked his knuckles around.

It felt so good. He felt like he could just rest. Just let time slip by like the trickle of water through Jon's fingers.

The last he knew for a few hours, Jon murmured, "You're very warm." Which was true. He was warm, and dense, and sinking into the sensation.

Vaguely, Martin was aware Jon made him eat something later, and when his phone let out a musical chime, Jon gave Martin more medicine.

When he actually roused a bit, it seemed very late. The house was dark, and Martin was laid across the sofa, his head tucked into a pillow against the arm. His legs were draped over Jon's lap, under a blanket, and the only light in the room was the laptop screen. _Martin's_ laptop, with earbuds plugged in and tucked into Jon's ears.

Shifting, Martin rolled onto his other side. "J'n."

Tugging one earbud loose, Jon tapped the space bar, pausing the movie he seemed to be watching. "What do you need?"

"Laptop," Martin mumbled. "How'd you guess th' password?"

Tilting his head, Jon gave Martin a ridiculously fond look. "I asked you last time you were conscious and you told me."

"Oh, okay." He shut his eyes again. That was good enough for him, honestly. There wasn't an ounce of spare energy to spend on worrying about it anyway.

* * *

In the morning, Martin wheezed and fought to modulate his breathing, avoiding the chest-shaking cough that lingered in him.

While he handled that important business, Jon held Martin's phone to his ear.

"I'm not sure. He was practically delirious yesterday. Today, he's… cognizant, but his breathing sounds dreadful." He paused, listening. "I'm not going to tell him that. He's unwell."

Martin reached out for the phone. "Let me—" Just like that, he let out a hard breath, gasping.

Jon pushed Martin back against the sofa. "No. No talking." Setting the mouthpiece back in place, he said, "You heard that? Yes, that, but all the time. I'm unsure if he'll be better by then." He nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow. Bye, Gerry." Thumbing the phone off, he set it on the table.

"You're not… acting very submissive." Martin said sourly.

"You're not acting very dominant," Jon shot back. Picking up his own phone, he tapped at the screen rapidly. "Just rest. I'm going to ask Daisy over so I can go back to the shop. One of my clients has bought another damned painting of a lighthouse or a galleon or something."

What Martin _intended_ to say was _'I'll be fine for a few hours on my own, you don't have to bother Daisy.'_ But it came out as another hail of coughing.

"I'm going to make you more honey tea," Jon said.

It was nice to not have to do that himself. Settled in on the sofa with blankets and pillows propping him up was much nicer than the alternative of hauling himself to the kitchen and sitting on the stool because it was just closer to all the things he needed. The need to supply token protests was strong, but really, having Jon taking care of him made the entire process so much easier.

He had a feeling he was a bad patient, but he'd never had someone around to take care of him before. Surely he could be forgiven for being bad at this.

Before letting him drink anything, Jon put the thermometer in Martin's mouth. "Still just around 38. You should sleep more."

That sounded like a decent idea. It was frankly ridiculous how much Martin was sleeping, and yet he still was always ready for another nap.

Another stretch of indeterminate time slid away into fevered sleep. He could have stayed there, warm and unconscious, straight into the next day.

Someone laughed, a loud bright crack through the air. "Is that supposed to be a revelation?"

"Shhh, keep it down, for god's sake," Jon hissed angrily. "Do you have any concept of an indoor voice?"

"I've been here three hours and he's done nothing but cough and sleep," Daisy said. "He's _out._ Let's go back to you being a besotted idiot. You thought he was avoiding you?"

"I keep—!" Martin kept his eyes closed, honestly ready to slip back under again, but he could hear the way Jon inhaled slowly through his nose, tense and unhappy. "I keep doing this thing, I keep saying… things, in the heat of the moment. It's embarrassing."

"Mm. Having emotions always is."

"Your flippancy is not appreciated."

"You summon me to my boss's house, you take what you get, Jon," Daisy said. "How many times have you gone all soft during a scene?"

A faint moan. "Too many times. I'm never thinking straight and it just… plops out, like rotten fruit falling from a tree." Jon sighed. "He's not said anything about it, except that it's _common,_ it's _understandable,_ happens _all the time."_

"Ouch," Daisy said sympathetically.

"Exactly."

"Okay, but… that's rough, but do you really think he's not fond of you? Haven't you been taking care of him for the last few days?"

"I've hardly given him another option!" This time, Daisy shushed Jon, and their voices dropped low, their words with whispered edges. "He's not fit to kick me out properly, so I've made a nuisance of myself."

"Do you listen to half the things you say? You're so overdramatic."

"Thank you, that's helpful."

"Why don't you just tell him? You know, while _not_ in the throes of illicit, bondage-fueled passion?"

"No! God. I…" His voice trailed off, so soft Martin could barely hear him. "I don't want to lose this. I don't know what I'd do."

"I think you're treating this as much more dire than it is."

"Perhaps. Better than risking it."

"Fine. Well, enjoy watching him have coughing fits and staring at him like he's hung the moon. I'm heading out."

"Thanks for coming."

"Yeah, of course. If I get sick from this, you're taking care of me next."

"I would. I will. Bye, Daisy." Then, there was a pause and he let out an indignant noise. "Stop, enough!"

"Later, Jon." The door opened and closed, and there was the faint noise of the chain and lock being done up for the night.

The sound of Jon's steps were quiet, as though he were walking carefully on the rugs as he approached. When he was close, Martin tried to hold himself very still, deepening his breathing as though he were still asleep.

The sofa dipped, and cool hands pressed to Martin's face. He wasn't sure if he was genuinely that hot or if Jon just ran a little cool in comparison. But it still felt so good, Martin tipped his head, exhaling slowly.

"How are you feeling?" Jon asked softly.

"Like I've slept all day," Martin mumbled. Blinking slowly, he looked up at Jon. Now, it was impossible to ignore the tender expression on his face, how he bent close and bowed over Martin, continuing to touch him cheek and stroke his neck. Also, the fact his hair was a mess. That seemed odd. "You're back?"

"You just missed Daisy." He pressed his lips to Martin's forehead. "Still warm."

"Sorry." His heart started to beat hard.

"I'm going to make something." He shifted to stand again.

Martin reached out, took hold of the front of his shirt. "I. Jon, you… didn't have to do all this."

"Yes, I do," Jon said fiercely, taking Martin's hand and resting it back on his chest. Leaning back, he stood, and wandered into the kitchen.

Taking a moment to shore up some strength, Martin levered himself up. The immediate vertigo was terrible, but he pushed through it to follow Jon.

A pan sat on the stove as Jon diced vegetables. Martin leaned in the archway to watch.

It was curry, Martin thought. His sense of smell was completely screwed up from being sick, but he recognized enough ingredients to make a guess. Watching Jon move, his hair tied back, his hands chopping and stirring things, was lovely. His gaze was low, expression calm and placid as he juggled tasks.

Standing really did take it out of him. He moved to sit on a stool. "That isn't going to kill me, is it?"

Jon's head snapped up in surprise. "Go lay down," he said automatically.

"I've laid down for, like, four days. You're not going to make it too spicy, right?"

"I'm not," Jon protested. "You'll survive." Tipping the cutting board of ingredients into the pot, Jon dried his hands on a towel and went to the fridge.

A glass of ice water and a bowl of fruit were set in front of Martin. Watermelon, cut into perfect spheres. Each one burst sweet and wet over his tongue. It cooled his throat significantly.

Swallowing, he asked, "Did you melonball all these?"

"Yes," Jon said, returning to cooking.

"That seems like a lot of work."

"I don't mind." He sounded distracted, stirring vegetables as they softened before rinsing some rice and getting it started as well.

"You're very good at this," Martin mused.

"Taking care of a stubborn boyfriend?"

"I didn't mean that specifically." He watched the easy slope of Jon's shoulders as he worked, caught the snippets of humming.

Martin frowned, popping another watermelon sphere into his mouth. It reminded him of an old question. How to solve Jon Sims.

When everything was steaming away, Jon stepped away to steal a melonball and lean gently on Martin's back. Pressure had always been Jon's thing, enjoying Martin's weight on him. Now, their positions reversed, Martin sighed and rested back against him.

"How are you not sick?" he wondered aloud.

"I'm not fortunate enough to get sick. It never happens."

"Lucky me," Martin said. Behind him, Jon inhaled sharply.

"I… maybe." His voice pitched low again. "I really don't mind."

* * *

"What are you staring at?"

Martin startled, knocking over a cup full of pens. Quickly, he righted and refilled it. "Nothing," he lied. "Just, you know. Staring off at nothing."

He had been staring at Jon. That wasn't unusual. It was difficult not to stare at him in the studio, as he walked amid the equipment, a few strands of hair falling loose around his face, his fingers busy as he prepared the release of a painting, printing paperwork and readying wrapping paper.

Martin thought Jon was probably well suited for museums and galleries, standing amid the art.

The thought was so juvenile and cliche, Martin cleared his throat, as if he could jostle it loose and away.

"Sorry this is taking so long," Jon murmured. "As soon as this one is picked up, we can leave."

"We have plenty of time," Martin reassured him.

"I still have to change, and it consistently takes me too long to do up my tie," Jon said, frowning.

"What luck, I'm pretty good with tying knots." Martin smiled cheekily.

Jon wasn't facing him, but by now Martin could recognize how he moved when he rolled his eyes. "I just don't want to be late to the show."

"It'll be fine, love, just relax."

There was another, separate bunch of Jon's shoulders at that. It warmed Martin's chest. Just a little affectionate appellation, and Jon was so responsive. He'd started slipping them into normal conversation, outside scenes, and was pleased at how it affected Jon. He never missed it, hypervigilant and wonderfully keen.

Martin knew… well, he had an inkling of the depth of Jon's emotions. The fever had laid him out terribly, but he remembered Jon's insistent care and his worry, which went well beyond a sub taking care of his dom as well as casual boyfriends. He replayed the fragments of Jon and Daisy's conversation in his head incessantly, turning it over and over like a worry stone.

Thinking about Jon's hushed words and accidental proclamations was distraction enough. Martin barely moved as the studio door opened behind him, unconcerned with the visitor.

Until: "Jonathan! I hope you've prepared another piece for me."

"I've prepared paperwork for you to sign, Mr. Lukas," Jon said with a curt sort of familiarity, picking up the folder of release documents and walking past Martin.

Martin, staring off at the far wall of shelves, froze so sharply he stopped breathing.

This wasn't possible. It _wasn't._

"All this extra fuss. We've done this all before," Peter Lukas said with the baseline jovial tone he carried around with him at all times. "At some point, we _must_ sort out a courier service."

"You would still need to show up _eventually_ to sign the paperwork," Jon said. "Else the paintings would be legally in my possession."

"Seems dreadful, to steep art in this morass of legalese."

"Hardly." There was a shuffle of papers. "This is your copy. I'll retrieve the painting."

"Oh, just wrap it up, Jonathan. I'll take a gander when it goes up on the wall."

"And this," Jon said with a sigh, "is why paperwork is important. Alright. Give me a few moments."

As he walked by again, Jon touched Martin's arm briefly. "Almost done," he said.

Swallowing, Martin nodded, not trusting his voice. He ran a hand through his hair, gathering himself. It was fine. He was fine.

His world slowed down minutely as he heard footsteps behind him, and a cautious, delighted query: "Martin?"

Martin shut his eyes and counted to five.

Turning, Martin lowered his hands to his sides, keeping his fingers lax, his posture easy. "Peter."

Peter looked the same as he had four years past. Which was strange; when Martin looked back, he felt so much younger, so much like an entirely different person. But Peter seemed unchanged, as if they were meeting up again for dinner or an event or whatever the trial of the day was.

His crows' feet were deep as he smiled, naked pleasure at seeing Martin. "Well. You're as much of a morsel as ever, Martin. That's a fine look for you."

"Going to a show," Martin said, holding himself still and resisting the urge to cross his arms protectively over his chest.

"With…" Peter's eyebrows raised dramatically. "Huh. I never imagined he was your type."

"You don't know the first thing about my type," Martin told him sharply, then immediately regret the slip. The last thing he wanted was to rise to any of Peter's bullshit.

"He must be paying well," Peter said, with a little petulance. "You never defended me."

"I'm not on the clock."

"Oh, no?" Peter reached a hand up and rubbed his chin, the perfectly groomed edges of his beard making a bristly noise. "Isn't that funny. When you left me, I had hoped it were for a better deal. Something worthy of you." His eyebrows softened into a facade of concern. "I would have renegotiated, you know."

"I can't tell if you're being purposefully obtuse or not."

"Who could say?" He stepped in, and the closer proximity made an icy thing crawl up Martin's spine. "I do miss you terribly, Martin. We made such a handsome pair." His mouth twisted. "I've tried others, obviously. But it all seems so very… put on. Not like you. You were such a natural."

His hand lifted, and Martin leaned back, eyes narrow on Peter's face.

Peter stilled. "It's like that?"

"Yes," Martin said. Clearing his throat, he took a step back from Peter. "It's like that."

"Is it though." There was that tone to his voice, something bright and keen, consideration that had no place for innocent bystanders as Peter thought about what he wanted. "We could come to some arrangement, I'm sure."

"No thanks," Martin said.

"Thirty thousand," Peter countered immediately, his gaze unblinking on Martin's face. "One day."

That was a very large number, and Martin inhaled sharply as the digits appeared in his mind's eye.

"There's no sin in having a price," Peter said in his most gentle voice. It was also his most condescending, by coincidence. "And you've always called a heavy one. That's very admirable, Martin."

Sighing, he shook his head, crossing his arms tightly. "Thank you. But no. I'm going to a show, and am quite busy."

Peter loomed. It was something he turned on as needed, as far as Martin could tell. He didn't have much height on Martin, but there was a presence he could put on at will, it seemed. Martin's hands clenched on his elbows.

"Think about how your night could go," Peter said, dropping to a whisper. "There's not a commanding bone in that boy's body. He'll hold your hand and kiss you gently. But where's the passion, Martin?" Faux concern filled his eyes. "You deserve something grand. I could provide, and pay you for the privilege."

Martin turned his head, and looked to Jon.

Jon was halted halfway through wrapping a painting up, his eyes wide and lips parted in shock as he observed what was playing out right in front of him. When Martin's gaze touched him, his mouth snapped shut, and his face reddened.

Slowly, Martin smiled, and returned his attention to Peter. "No. I've got plans."

"Martin, is this such a time to be petulant?" Peter clucked his tongue. "Are you driving hard bargain? Fine. Fifty thousand. For _a single day."_

There was always that weird hot rush in his head, all at the way Peter just tossed money around like it meant nothing. Just empty zeroes in his head.

Shaking his head, Martin laughed softly. "Christ, Peter. I mean, yes, _obviously,_ for fifty _thousand_ pounds? Yeah, I could spend a day with you. For fifty, I could pour myself into something you'd like and hang off your arm and be in love with you." He smiled, bitterly. "The pay wasn't the problem, Peter. You just never understood. You can have the Boyfriend Experience, full twenty-four hours of it. But when your time's up, all that? It's going to come back off, and it'll still be me underneath."

"Martin," Peter started.

"No, Peter. I'm not him. I never was. That was the problem." With a wan smile, Martin turned to look at Jon. "I'm going to wait inside, alright? Lemme know when you're ready to go," Martin said quietly.

Then, without sparing Peter another glance, he walked through the studio, let himself into Jon's living area, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Sitting on Jon's sofa, Martin pressed his fingertips together. They felt numb. Strange. That felt significant. He knew what that was a sign of.

That was where Jon found him, still pressing almost curiously at his fingertips, inciting the tingly feeling over and over.

Jon pressed his hands into Martin's, curling them together tightly and squeezing. "Martin," he said, voice rough.

Blinking, Martin lifted his head. "Are you ready to go?"

"Am I— Martin. No." He sat down beside Martin, moving to clutch at Martin's shoulders. "Martin."   
  


"Yeah?" Jon seemed upset. Martin pulled himself together a bit. "I didn't mean it, you know. I was just calling his bluff. I know Peter, and he didn't want _one night._ Sorry for saying all that stuff."

Jon's mouth worked for a moment before he squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply through his nose. "I can't believe Lukas was— that he…"

"He was my last client," Martin explained. "I spent about two years exclusive to him. Just kind of on-call." He touched his tingly fingers together again. "As soon as I had my finances in order to start Blackwood House, I broke it off."

"I'm so sorry," Jon said, agonized.

"What?" Martin smiled. "Why?"

Again, Jon seemed at a loss. Instead, he reached out and took hold of Martin's shoulders, pulling. More from surprise than anything, Martin went along, until he was laid down against Jon's chest, enclosed by both of Jon's arms.

The ice started to melt. Martin felt his breath hitch once, then held it to stop, to keep calm.

Jon cupped the back of his head, his nose in Martin's hair. He didn't say anything else, but something was pulling loose, like thread yanked out from under a fasten.

Shutting his eyes, Martin pressed his face against Jon, smelling paint and fabric softener that tickled his nose. Nails dragged against his scalp in slow, steady strokes.

His throat was tight.

It would be alright. Later, they'd entirely miss their show, but they'd order takeaway and watch telly, and Martin would cry for a little bit. But the wound was already healing. It had been for years now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hey arc, wasn't this supposed to be a two-parter"
> 
> listen. this is what happens with id-fic okay. leave me alone.


	4. self

Blackwood House did its very best to accommodate all comers, but there were a few requests that genuinely were difficult to manage.

The door to Martin's office was open from both ways, the front desk visible one way and the pastel hue of the green room visible the other way. Sasha sat primly in the chair across from Martin while Daisy…

Well, Daisy was Daisy, and she sat on the corner of the desk with her legs crossed, back straight and solid as a pole.

"I could get ready with Daisy, then let the client take over after," Sasha said. She had sharp little nails, and was quietly pressing the curve of her thumbnail into her opposite palm. Martin glanced at the painful fidget and shook his head.

"I don't like that. It would be too easy for things to go wrong," he said.

Daisy arched her neck and peered at Sasha, then at Martin, reminding Martin of nothing so much as a great bird surveying the landscape. "Could leave me in the room."

"Sort of ruins the scene," Sasha said. "Playing helpless is a little more dodgy when I have a bodyguard nearby."

"Wrap it into the scene?" Martin suggested, then shook his head. "No, you're right. But I'm not comfortable having you put in suspension and then _left._ Especially with a client, not a professional dom."

"Hm," Daisy said, brow furrowing deeply. "Which room has the recording equipment installed?"

"Room two," Martin answered.

"Client is an MP, there is a negative ten thousand chance they will be okay with their session with a prostitute being _recorded,"_ Sasha pointed out with a laugh.

"Well, then the answer is going to remain no. When we're messing with full restraint like this…" Martin shrugged. 

"Aw," Sasha said. "I've never been in full suspension bondage."

Tilting her head with an entirely different keenness, Daisy looked at Sasha. "Have you not?"

"You're the only one with the training," Sasha pointed out, getting up from her seat and smoothing out her skirt. "And you're _very_ popular."

The light shifted, and Martin looked up.

In the doorway, Jon stood, one arm folded under a large paper bag braced against his chest. In his other hand was a carrier with hot drink cups. "Oh. Pardon me, am I interrupting?"

The women turned to look at him, and Sasha gasped. "An expert has arrived! Come on, Jon."

"Oh dear," he said dryly, but approached cautiously. "I'm afraid I didn't bring enough for everyone."

"You brought me something?" Martin asked, craning his neck to examine the parcels.

"I've brought lunch," Jon said. "What am I an expert in?"

"Suspension. Do you like it? How is it?" Reaching out, Sasha relieved Jon of his bag, setting it on the desk for him.

Daisy leaned forward over her lap, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm.

"This is some kind of breach of NDA," Jon said defensively, giving a haughty sniff as he glared at Daisy.

"If you close the door, it's not, actually," Martin pointed out helpfully.

"Excuse me, could you be on my side, dearest?"

"I am," Martin said. "But anyone as experienced in submission as you knows that doesn't mean I'll always do as you say." He grinned a little. "I know what's best for you, wouldn't you say?"

Jon rolled his eyes, and very purposefully gave Sasha his attention. "What do you want to know?"

"Suspension. Is it nice?"

"I'm fond of it," Jon said levelly. "There is a particular mix of helplessness and security to it, being aloft but very carefully bound."

"He's fallen asleep in it before," Daisy added.

"It takes a lot to get in and out of it, right," Sasha asked. "Did you ever get anxious?"

"No," Jon answered. "But I trust Daisy entirely."

Sasha twisted at the waist to look at her. "Aw!"

"Yeah, sure." Finally unfolding herself, Daisy hopped off the desk to the floor. "We'll see if we can try it off hours sometime." She very purposefully bumped her shoulder into Jon as she passed. "Later, Sims." She reached a hand up towards his hair.

Immediately, he smacked it away. "Stop. You're a menace."

She still managed to skate fingers through his hair once before slipping away, guiding Sasha out through the green room door.

Jon fussed with his hair, as if Daisy had badly mussed it rather than lightly shifted his fringe. "You should discipline her," he told Martin coolly.

"That's not how it works," Martin said, standing to lean over the desk. He could see the moment Jon caught on, the flush and look of surprise before he leaned to meet Martin and take a kiss against his cheek. "Funny seeing you away from work." Martin sat back down.

"Yes, well, sometimes schedules align such I can sneak away." He set his carrier down and began to unpack everything. From the bag came not takeaway containers but actual dishes: a solid bowl with a fitted plastic lid and two smaller, empty bowls. He even brought a serving spoon.

"It's not spicy," Jon said, forestalling Martin's usual concern as he pulled the lid off. Inside was toasted rice with prawns and greens. Immediately, the office starts to smell amazing from whatever aromatics Jon's used. "Well, it is spiced, but it's not _hot,_ in deference to your delicate constitution."

Martin would take the opportunity to sass Jon right back, but there was something inordinately pleasant to just sitting there and watching Jon work. He plated some food for them both, set out silverware in position next to the bowls, and availed himself to Martin's tea accoutrements to finish setting out drinks.

There was a methodical confidence to Jon's movement that was wonderful to observe.

He only faltered when everything was done, and the paper bag discarded. Suddenly, the wind left Jon, and he stood there at an abrupt loss. "Yes?"

"Thank you," Martin said slowly, imbuing as much gratitude as he could into the words.

"Right," Jon said, floundering, as if he had to explain himself. "I, ah."

"Sit down, Jon," Martin told him firmly.

He did, and let out a hard breath. "The. I. Sometimes." Jon's eyes shut for a moment, then opened again. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"That's okay," Martin said softly, and picked up his fork. It wasn't a _scene_ by any means, but there was still a palpable relief in Jon as he followed Martin's lead.

* * *

It was like watching a lobbed ball arc through the air in slow motion. Martin already _kind of_ knew where it would land.

The Peter thing was important, projection-wise. The way Jon closed around Martin like he was something precious and worth protecting was new. It wasn't clear what the whole— the _situation,_ what it meant for Jon's professional relationship with Peter. But he remarked less on his mysterious nautical-loving client, and Martin had the feeling Peter was no longer part of Jon's rolodex.

Which was nice, obviously. Less chance to run into Peter was always good. (Martin had already deleted another email from P. L. without reading it.) But also he knew how that might look to the crowd Jon was forced to work with. No one held a grudge like the privileged.

If that was a factor, Jon didn't mention it or let on in any way. So, perhaps selfishly, Martin let it go. Because really, if he never saw Peter again, it'd be too soon.

That wasn't the point, though. The point was, Jon hovered more. He invited himself over to Martin's more, and almost always brought food or cooked. 

It really hit Martin over a random weekend, when the telly was playing some incredible marathon of movies about goofy subterranean worms terrorizing some remote Americans, and they were doing laundry. Or, Jon was doing laundry, resolutely not allowing Martin to assist.

There was a safe little box in Martin's mind where he kept certain facts about Jon, and as he looked through the narrow, doorless frame sectioning off the laundry room and watched Jon folding sheets, it started to tick. 

One of the upsides of their relationship and the thus-far understood parameters thereof was taking Jon's measurements was treated as blaise and barely worth commenting on. Martin took a soft tape measure to Jon late one night as Jon worked on refreshing a painting.

All Jon said was, "Nothing skintight, if you please," in a distracted tone as he swished his brush in some chemical mixture before dabbing it onto the paint, loosening years of miscare and dirt. Under, the hues were vivid and almost too-bright.

"Full black latex," Martin said airly as he sat down. With his phone, he started looking at relevant shops, examining his options.

"Ugh," Jon said with feeling, nose wrinkling. "Cinnabar. Minium. Red, red, red."

"Red latex?"

"If you're only going to talk nonsense, you can shut up."

"You wouldn't dress up for me?" Martin ventured, looking up in what he hoped was a very casual way from his phone.

"Of course I would," Jon answered in the same distant way as he worked. "But lets be reasonable."

Reasonable. Martin had been reasoning his way through this for a while, so it would be fine. Almost certainly.

* * *

After sending off measurements to the seamstress he liked best from his research, Martin had to wait. Getting things made bespoke always took a little time, and the most talented people tended to have a queue anyway.

Once he had confirmation that the seamstress was working on his order, the excitement over what he was preparing started to become a major source of distraction. 

He could have just waited. But Martin knew better than to let himself frame it that way. Getting the thing, then putting it in a box with paper and a bow would end in disaster. They had to talk first; sometimes, a surprise was a terrible thing.

"Let's do Rabbit tonight," Martin offered Jon.

But, oh, Jon was clever. He was immediately on alert, the line of his spine snapping rigid as he turned and looked at Martin. "Rabbit."

"Yeah. Unless you want to eat in."

Jon got a look like he'd bitten into a lemon. "We are approaching the anniversary of our relationship, and you would like to go to the place we first negotiated."

"You could look at it like a celebration," Martin told him. Then, relenting, he added: "I do want to talk about something serious. But I promise, I'm not ending our arrangement or breaking up with you."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I have an idea for us to try. But its not something— what do you call it? Organic?"

"Ah." He was still frowning, but the anxiousness had leaked out of him somewhat. "Well. Let's do the noodle place instead, the tables are more private, out on the roof."

"I don't know how to politely eat noodles!" Martin complained.

"For god's sake, Martin, literally no one will be watching you to ensure you have proper noodle consumption etiquette." And Jon went to get dressed to go out, so they were settled.

There were many small pleasures tied up in being with Jon, but one that always snuck up on Martin was how he felt like a gentleman on nights like this. 

Martin had spent years hanging off the arms of other men, and then years carefully not really doing any serious liaisons. Things had been simpler. Simpler, and less rich and wonderful than walking around Chelsea with Jon's arm folded through his.

It helped that Jon looks immaculate on date nights. Martin knew his wardrobe and what colors flattered him best, but Jon always looked like he could be on his way to a gallery opening or something, sleek and buttoned up, with the cool grey tone of his jacket interacting in some technical and artistic way with his linen shirt.

And his hand was warm as his fingers rested against Martin's wrist, their arms folded. Martin adored him. There was nothing better than pulling out a chair for him.

Ōbun was a common enough lunch spot for them, and neither of them needed long with the menus before ordering. Martin despised sake, and so stuck to tea while Jon availed himself to the warm rice wine.

"You're not allowed to kiss me for the rest of the night," Martin said as he watched Jon drink from an undersized little saucer-cup.

"That is a grand assumption, that I'll want to kiss you sometime tonight." Giving Martin a steady look, he poured himself more to drink. "All depends on whatever _renegotiation_ you have in mind."

Right. Martin grimaced as he thought it out, how to approach this. "So. The, ah. Our arrangement." 

Some of the token imperviousness faded from Jon's face. "I really can't imagine you suggesting something truly unacceptable or catastrophic, Martin. By now, we have some measure of mutual understanding."

"Yes, which is why I know this is me making a case." Martin inhaled deeply, bracingly. "You don't like roleplay."

Jon froze for just a second before blinking through it. He nodded once. "Generally speaking? Yes. I'm not fond of roleplay. I believe you pointed out I lack some of the… imagination needed to understand the broader appeal." His mouth twisted. "Which I believe was verbatim critique from one of my university instructors, so. Fair enough."

Folding his hands, Martin leaned forward. "I think there's another aspect to it? One less obvious."

A bemused smile crossed Jon's face. "Oh, this will be good. What psychoanalysis have you unlocked now?"

"Don't be like that. You know how kink works."

"I do," Jon agreed mildy. "Go on."

This was where Martin wanted to be careful. His thumbs tapped idly at the table. "I think… you don't like roleplay because it doesn't feel like you. And you want it to be about you."

That clearly gave Jon some pause. He didn't reply right away, and the silence stretched until food arrived. It provided a fair enough distraction for them both. Jon deftly handled his chopsticks as he tucked into his gyūdon while Martin elected for the blunt force instruments of fork and knife for his pork tonkatsu. And he could scoop up some of Jon's rice-and-egg for a quick taste.

After a few moments of eating, Jon hummed, staring at his bowl of food. "It's a fair assessment. I often… I have trouble with myself. Knowing you have some affection for me helps with my own sense of self-worth."

"You know that playing a role for a scene doesn't mean I don't like you," Martin pointed out quietly. "You _know_ that. When I'm domming for you, that's a role."

"But its a matter of degrees," Jon said. "You are amplifying something that is a genuine part of yourself, just as I am when I am submissive to you. Once I'm playing the role of a— why is vampire always the first thing that comes to mind?"

"Secret fetish?"

"No, god." Jon made a face. "No, but when I am performing something… further from myself, then…"

"It feels like I don't want you," Martin finished for him gently.

"Yellow," Jon said in a cold, unhappy tone.

"Sorry," Martin said immediately.

"It's… fine. If you could just be a little less observant."

"I do want you. All the time."

Jon lifted a hand. "Understanding something academically." He lifted his other, the same way. "Understanding something emotionally." Chopsticks gripped again, he tapped them at Martin. "Regardless, you should make your case."

"I think it might work because it's not very different from, uh, you?"

Gaze holding on Martin for a beat, Jon said, "That is deeply foreboding."

He'd eaten enough to be alright with pushing his plate aside. Leaning forward, Martin held out his hands, palms up and entreating. "We… I think we've been doing enough to sort of control your desire for punishment. Which sounds _very_ managerial, I know."

"A bit," Jon remarked wryly.

"But since you… seem to feel more steady lately, less anxious, you're doing submission a bit differently. And more and more often." There was a little confused frown to Jon's face, so he evidently wasn't aware yet. "You always liked doing things for me, like preparing tea or dinner, but you… _really_ like it lately. Taking care of things."

The line between Jon's brows deepened. "I'm the better cook."

Martin sighed. "Yes, I know."

"And you're often tired when you've done a long day in the office."

"Your job requires a lot more physical work than mine," Martin pointed out. "This is besides the point. You're happier when I let you loose on the domestics. It settles you down as well as anything I do to you. Don't scowl about it."

"I'm not scowling," Jon said, as he scowled. "So I— I secretly have a homemaker fetish, is that it?"

"Uh. I wouldn't phrase it like that?" As Jon looked even more cross, Martin offered, "We can drop it. It's fine."

"No, I want to know your prescription."

"Do you? Because your tone implies otherwise, Jon."

There was a pause as Jon inhaled deeply and rubbed between his eyes. He stroked the bridge of his nose for a few seconds, exhaling out his mouth in a long stream. "Sorry. God, I should be better about talking about this."

"It's alright." Martin extended his hand, and was relieved when Jon sighed and slipped his fingers into Martin's grasp, his thumb stroking the back of Martin's hand. "I'll out with it, okay? I ordered something in your size. An apron."

Jon tilted his head to the side, and finally his lips curled up into a faint smile. "An apron."

"Yes. I think you might enjoy it. It's not much removed from things you like. It's like…" Martin thought it over carefully. "It's like, we do this kind of play already, and this is just a way to… codify it?"

"Then, the roleplay is me as your," Jon stumbled briefly over his words, "your… house spouse." He grimaced at the accidental rhyme. "What are the parameters of this role?"

"That's kind of the thing? I sort of guess you'll… know what to do. It's you, not a completely different person to try and embody. And if it doesn't work, then… oh well."

"While I appreciate the sentiment, that's a little unhelpful. What do you _want_ from me in an apron? What are you hoping for?"

It was Martin's turn to frown. "I don't want to cast my own expectations on you."

Jon rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and groaned. "Goddammit, Martin." Rolling back down, he pointed at Martin. "This, this is what I mean. You aren't just the facilitator of whatever hidden desire is lurking in the dark corners of my skull. You're part of this too."

"I am!" Martin said. "Sorry, I'm doing it again."

"You always tell me why I'd like something, never why you'd like it."

"I knooow, I know." He pursed his lips together for a moment, angry at himself. "Sorry. Old habits. I, _obviously_ I also want to try this. Part of it is for you, that I think you'll get into it. But there is a… perverse pleasure in it for me, to have you subservient in this specific way. Coming home and having my pretty boyfriend making me dinner and looking to me for approval is, it's _weirdly_ compelling?"

With a somewhat haughty sniff, Jon said, "Gender roles."

"Heaven forbid," Martin laughed. "We don't need to dig into that part. Unless you want a dress to go along with the apron."

"You make it sound like I've never worn a dress."

Martin's eyebrows lifted, immediately interested. "I've never _seen_ you in a dress."

"Not yet, true." Jon got a pinched look on his face again. "I want to think about it. That's alright?"

"Always," Martin promised. Their meal was essentially over, and the evening felt like it was winding down. He contemplated the tension shivering in the air between them. "Do you… want to split ways tonight? If you want to think it over."

Again, Jon didn't respond right away, looking mostly at his bowl as he considered. "No. But, we can go to mine tonight?"

Usually, and especially when they intended to do a scene, they went to Martin's place. The unspoken was clear enough. "I'd love to, Jon. Thank you." Again, he held out his hand, and was rewarded with Jon placing his palm against Martin's. It was easy to pull in a little and rub his cheek against Jon's hand.

The unease faded from Jon, and he ducked his head a little to hide his smile.

* * *

Martin took his and Jon's coats to hang up while Jon slid into his slippers and shuffled into the kitchen. There was the audible hum as the electric kettle was put on, and Martin followed to observe.

Jon took two mugs from the drying rack over his sink and sort of paused, staring at them with a slight frown.

"Do you want me to do it," Martin offered softly.

Jon's head tilted briefly. "No." He set to setting up teabags and sugar to specification before he turned, tucking his hair behind his ear. "You're right. I want to do this part. But no scene tonight."

"I'm fine with that," Martin said agreeably. "Do you want me to find a movie or something?"

Delicate fingers doled out sugar and tore open the sealed packets for tea. As he poured the water just under boiling into the cups, Jon said, "No. Actually, I wanted to try something. If you're willing."

While tea steeped, they went to the living room, and Martin helped Jon move the coffee table away to the corner. There was clearly a plan in mind, as Jon laid down a thin sheet of plastic over the floor, then a towel. After a moment's consideration, he adding some pillows, and covered them with the towel. "Disrobe to your comfort level and sit down," Jon said, and puttered back into the kitchen.

Unsure what was coming, Martin took off his shirt, then reluctantly his vest, folding them and putting them on the sofa. His belly stuck out a little over his trousers, much more noticeable now, so he unbuckled his belt and unzipped.

Holding the mugs, Jon returned, placing them on the floor nearby.

"What're we doing?" Martin asked, hands lingering on his belt.

"Art, hopefully," Jon said, and cast his eyes over Martin's body. "If that's all you want off, I understand, but I did hope to have access to your legs."

Oh, the _paints._ Martin had nearly forgotten. Now that he understood better, he finished stripping, though gooseflesh spread over his skin as he sat on a pillow.

Jon hummed under his breath, and left through the bedroom door. He brought Martin one of the bathrobes, draping it over his shoulders before settling down on another pillow, next to Martin, with a stack of little paint pots in his arm and a few paintbrushes in his hand.

Taking a sip of his tea, Martin tried to quell the butterflies in his stomach. Jon was an _artist,_ it was his career, and he was going to apply paint to Martin. That was a lot to handle. 

_Get a grip, Blackwood,_ Martin thought viciously.

Next to him, Jon opened the paints and examined them with an expression Martin hadn't seen outside of his studio, a very particular type of discerning judgement. He dabbed a brush very briefly into one pot and tapped the color against the plastic beyond the towel. He added another, and tapped his brush between the two hues, mixing them in careful degrees before nodding.

Lifting his head, he just reached out and grabbed Martin's ankle, pulling his leg out straight. "Hey, okay!" Martin yelped.

Jon let out a soft, amused snort before resting Martin's calf on his knee and leaning in.

The paint wasn't as cold as Martin feared, but the slick sensation of it against his skin still made him shiver. Great strokes of a dark green color cast up from his knee, ticklish against his hair as Jon spread it to his hip. He redabbed the paint, adjusting the colors, and adding darker shades around the edges, but the colors were harmonious and blended together smooth as a riverstone.

Jon set his brush aside and picked up another. Only, it wasn't a brush, but a wooden tool with slanted and curved bits. Leaning in closer, Jon dragged it against Martin's skin, creating perfect neat lines in the dark green that stood out brightly.

Martin's mouth felt a little dry as Jon held his leg steady and described curves and feathered lines against the paint. Slowly, an image appeared in the relief, the highlight of Martin's skin acting as the medium to an array of flowers. Gardenias, given the sharp little point in each petal.

By the time Jon sat back and shook out his arm, there was a great spill of them down Martin's thigh.

"Good enough," Jon decided in a low tone.

_"Jon,_ that's beautiful," Martin managed, voice tight.

He only hummed again, looking down at the paints. "Can I have your arm?"

Next, Jon worked with his hand curled around Martin's wrist, holding him in place as he worked entirely with his other hand. Armed with new colors, he drenched Martin's arm in a dark violet color. Then, a slightly lighter, pinkish hue covering most of the violet. His brow was furrowed as he took care to carefully gradient and blur the colors together, until their transition was gradual and patient.

A dark bloody orange was laid over the pink, and spread up the same way. Then, a dark, dark blue. As it came together, Martin realized it was a sunset cascading up. With new colors each time, Jon added pinpricks of stars amid the violet and clouds the color of wildfire.

Martin lifted his free hand and rubbed at his eyes.

Jon stilled upon finishing up his new painting, looking steadily into Martin's face. "Should I stop? Is this bad?"

"No," Martin croaked, and cleared his throat. "On both counts, no. It's just lovely."

"Right." Jon nodded, looking away as he set his brush down again. "Ah, do you want to lay back? I wanted to try something a little less impressionistic."

"I don't know what that means, but sure. Hand me an extra pillow."

They rearranged, Jon guiding Martin to lay back with a throw pillow under his head, careful not to jostle his painted arm or leg. Jon moved the paints to new spots and sat at Martin's hip, picking up a wider brush and twirling it between his fingers for a moment. "Try to relax," Jon murmured. "This might take some time."

The wet brush came down against Martin's ribs, and he shut his eyes for a while.

It was really getting to him, for some reason. Having Jon's attention so narrow on him was thrilling, but it kept catching in Martin's throat. Jon like this, painting, doing what he did best, felt so unbelievably precious. Especially since Martin knew Jon… did not actually paint much. For whatever reason, Jon didn't do original pieces, focusing on his restorations instead.

Yet, with a little time and some body paints, he was making beautiful things out of Martin. Things that would come off in the wash and slip down the drain and be gone. It felt wasteful.

Breathing hitching a little, Martin opened his eyes and looked down at Jon's work.

It took a while to understand what he was doing. It wasn't flowers or sunsets this time. Jon used the wide span of his brush to stroke short, varied blots of color against Martin's skin. There were so many hues at play: green bruise colors, lavendered pinks, pale porcelain blues. They were layered over and over, the edges of each blot covered by another.

He wasn't making shapes. It was just the curve of Martin's body, recreated in a wider palette. It was like magic, how so many disparate colors worked to remake him.

Martin felt around for the bathrobe and found the sleeve, dabbing his face as his eyes teared up horribly.

"Martin," Jon breathed. His fingertips were warm and soft against Martin's cheek. "Hey, hey, don't… why are you crying?"

He sniffed, loud and embarrassing. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright. I didn't mean to… this wasn't meant to hurt." His hand shifted, pulling at Martin's shoulder. "Here, sit up, come on."

"I'll smudge it," Martin protested weakly.

"Who cares," Jon said, and drew Martin up. Without a care for his clothes, Jon wrapped his arms around Martin and held him. "Shh, it's alright. I'm sorry, I didn't check in with you."

"I'm still green," Martin said, his voice thick with emotion. "Jon, I just…" Jon's fingers stroked through Martin's hair as he continued to gently shush him. "It's just beautiful, and it's on me."

Jon rumbled something that wasn't quite words, his nose against Martin's tousled hair.

He could feel the paint all over, even where it had begun to dry. Swallowing, Martin whispered, "I love you too."

A gasp fanned over Martin's face. Jon leaned back sharply, his hands tight on Martin's shoulders. "What?"

Dressed up in all of Jon's care and affection, Martin gave him a watery smile. "I said, I love you too."

He was so close, Martin could see the way Jon's pupils blew wide as he stared. His mouth worked helplessly for a moment, before he managed to eek out Martin's name on an exhale.

Martin touched his hip. Jon leaned in and pressed their mouths together, closed but full and lingering as he pushed and sweetly tipped Martin's head back.

They remained like that for a long moment, before parting. Jon's faced was gratifyingly flushed.

"Was it that obvious?" he asked.

Martin made a show of looking down at himself, and the paint that was now quite smudged between them. "A bit, yeah."

"Well." His lips pressed tight for a moment. "At least I found a way to… tell you. That's what's important." He looked over Martin, and frowned. "I meant to take pictures before we ruined it. Damn."

"Next time," Martin told him. "I'll try not to start crying next time."

"I wouldn't mind," Jon said instantly. Then flushed darker. "I, that came out wrong. Obviously I don't enjoy making you cry, only that given the context, it's very appealing." His eyes squeezed shut. "Not— appealing, no. I mean."

Martin sighed loudly. "Another in a long line of men who like to make me cry. Terrible, Jon."

"I don't—! You know what. Time to wash up," Jon said, and started closing the lids on the paints. "Definitely time to have a shower."

Smiling, Martin leaned in, and was pleased when Jon immediately stopped to kiss him back. 

* * *

Martin had to be forgiven for not being ready when the parcel finally arrived. It was a late day at the office, and something went completely cock-eyed with their charge servicer, requiring more office work than Martin had intended to put in that day.

When he made it back home, the house was already warmed up for him, so to speak. The lights were on, and the telly was set to some youtube video with some disembodied hands making food against the palette of a very expensive-looking kitchen.

Jon stood in front of it, his arms folded and a very deep frown on his face. 

"Hello, love," Martin said as he put his shoes up.

Jon harumphed loudly, his eyes still on the video before he stalked back into the kitchen.

Martin's heart stuttered in his chest a bit, and he followed on slow, careful feet.

Standing at the counter, Jon sliced eggplant into rounds, thin and bendy. There was a white baking dish nearby, and the oven slowly ticking up to temperature.

Also, a discarded parcel package on the counter. Martin looked at it and cleared his throat. "Bit rude, opening someone's mail."

Jon tucked his hair behind his ear and didn't look up as he started to slice tomatoes with the same brisk knifework. "You were late."

"Sorry. Stuff at the office."

Something about that made Jon smirk slightly, shaking his head. "It is very, hm. _Domestic."_ He enunciated every syllable with gravity. "Waiting for you."

God, Martin had to get a hold of himself. In his defense, he wasn't prepared for this. Jon standing in his kitchen, making dinner, was a common sight for him by now. But somehow the lilac tie around his waist made things different.

The apron was a slate blue grey, and scattered with muted daisies and bending stems, splayed leaves, colorful but harmonious in a way that had reminded Martin of Jon's own fashion, the pops of color he wore under his coats and scarves. Around the edges was a lilac trim, following the sweetheart neckline that dipped low beneath Jon's clavicle. Under it, his button-down was open at the neck, framed by the lilac straps.

The waist tie was knotted with one loop. Martin approached, and Jon snapped to some kind of attention as he came in close, looking up with wide eyes at him.

Putting a hand on Jon's hip, Martin stepped behind him and tugged the loop in the knot loose. Trailing the ribbon in his hands, he retied it, this time in a proper bow, tugging it taut.

Jon's breath hitched. He put the knife down on the cutting board, hands pressed to the counter. Taking the tacit invitation, Martin laid his weight down on Jon, pressing him harshly against the counter and squeezing his hips.

"Did we want to talk first," Martin asked quietly in Jon's ear.

"We did talk," Jon whispered, bracing his hands to push back against Martin's chest. Point, to counterpoint, Martin crushed him harder against the counter, earning a stuttering breath from Jon. "It— It's fine. Let me get a feel for it."

Martin kissed his ear kindly in affirmation, then bent his head to tuck into Jon's neck. His hands slid under the apron to encircle Jon's waist.

With a deep breath, Jon pushing himself upright again, picked up his knife and returned to slicing things, neat and thin. "I'm trying to cook, Martin."

"Am I stopping you?" It was really nice, how he could close Jon in his arms.

"You'll be in the way," Jon pointed out. "Go sit down."

Letting Jon go was difficult, but Martin managed, though not before leaning in to kiss Jon's cheek. He'd shaved, to Martin's quiet surprise, skin freshly smooth.

In the living room, Martin settled onto the sofa and tried to relax, to lean back and drape himself across the cushions with something approaching poise. Leg crossed over the knee, arms stretched out. 

While he sat and contemplated changing into pajamas (comfortable, but not very dom-y), Jon swept around the corner, carrying a dark bottle.

There was a burble of humor in Martin's chest. _"Jon."_

"It's cider. Blackberry." The bottlecap was already removed, and Jon set the drink down on the side table by Martin's elbow.

"How's dinner going?"

"Just put it in. It'll have to cook a while." His hands seemed damp from a rinse, and Jon lifted the hem of the apron enough to use it to dry.

Somehow, Jon _using_ the apron in a practical way hit Martin hard in the ribs. He reached out, catching Jon's wrist and tugging.

"What?" Jon asked, eyes hooded. 

"You've set a timer on it, right? So come here."

Gingerly, Jon let himself be coaxed to sit across Martin's lap, his legs stretched out, arms around Martin's shoulders.

"I seem to remember a time when you pushed me onto the floor from a position like this," Jon noted blandly.

Martin slung his arms around Jon's waist, palm pressed to his outer thigh. "You weren't being very nice at the time." Picking up his drink, he sipped it, boozy fruit over his tongue. "This is much better."

Jon's mouth twisted, and he looked away. Martin suspected he was hiding a smile. "Glad you approve." He touched Martin's jaw, and dragged his thumb against the slight stubble growing in. Martin obligingly tipped his head back for the attention, looking up at the man on his lap.

"And you?" Martin asked.

"Would I be here if I didn't?" Jon replied smoothly, and touched Martin's lower lip next. "In this getup?"

"It's not a getup, and you look lovely," Martin protested immediately, stroking along the lilac edging.

"You're biased."

"Yeah. Guilty." He squeezed Jon's thigh.

Jon leaned in and pressed his forehead against Martin's, closing his eyes. When he tipped his mouth against Martin's, it feel like a tender request. His lips parted eagerly when Martin pushed, and he hummed low and happy at the brush of Martin's tongue.

Making out on the sofa was a perfect way to spend time. Slow and meandering, Martin had half a mind on Jon's body language, trying to gauge how this scene was going. There was a tender moment when Jon stroked his hands up Martin's chest and draped his arms around his shoulders, a strangely slinky gesture that stuck out to Martin. On a whim, Martin hitched Jon closer, until the space between them vanished.

Jon kept his eyes closed, hummed when Martin kissed him again.

"I told you," Martin murmured, his lips moving against Jon's, they were so close. "You're lovely."

Looking somewhat dazed, Jon dragged his hair out of his eyes. "It's a flattering cut."

"Didn't just mean this," Martin said, hooking his finger under the hem and sliding along it and Jon's chest. "You're very worth coming home to."

The flush in Jon's cheeks was dark. "If I'm… obedient, and good. What if I'm not?" His fingers tucked into the collar of Martin's shirt.

"Well. You'll find out," Martin promised solemnly.

Jon's eyes slitted with what seemed like a unique pleasure. "Right."

The picture they must've made, with Martin lounging and sipping his cider and Jon laid over him with Martin's hand on his thigh, under the apron. It was both a calm moment of closeness and something that shivered with tension.

More than once, Jon laid his head on Martin's shoulder, resting. He was there when the timer went off.

Martin gave his thigh a brisk slap. "Go on then."

Jon's fist tightened in Martin's shirt momentarily before he pushed away and rose, flicking his hair back again before briskly walking back to the kitchen.

When he was safely behind the wall separating the living room from the kitchen, Martin bit his lip hard. Barefoot, too. God, it seemed wild that he could find his way into new… fascinations, even after so long.

Fine. Kinks. _Alas, gender things._ He rubbed his face as he laughed softly, and pushed himself up to go sit at the little table. They hardly ever actually sat at the table for dinner, preferring the sofa. But all the detritus and papers and opened bills had been cleared off the table, and Martin could read a room.

Jon emerged with the ceramic dish, held securely between two mittens. When he set it down, it was a colorful ratatouille, with crumbled goat cheese. Already, he could taste basil and hot olive oil in the air around them.

Slapping the mitten firmly down on the table, Jon sat down. "I've never made this before, which in hindsight was an imminently unwise decision."

"But you wanted to make something special for me," Martin said.

Jon's mouth pinched into an annoyed expression, and it was unfairly adorable. Taking a measure, Martin reached out his hand for Jon's. When he reluctantly placed his hand in Martin's, Martin pulled him in and kissed his knuckles.

The look between them was heated. Letting it lie, Martin released Jon's hand and dished out food.

* * *

Dinner was delicious despite Jon's concerns.

After, Jon set to packing up the remaining ratatouille into the fridge before rolling up his sleeves and washing everything up. There was a particular decision made; Martin had a small dishwasher, since the house was fairly new, but Jon ignored it to handle the washing himself.

Martin leaned on the doorway of the kitchen and watched him. He caught every glance Jon shot him over his shoulder. He wanted something.

Which Martin did enjoy denying him for a while, because the way Jon could wind himself up tighter and tighter was a wonder to observe. Sometimes just letting him simmer was the best tactic.

But stepping in closer was even better, how every atom of Jon seemed tuned to Martin's presence as he came closer. Even the specific way Jon turned his gaze ahead was all for Martin.

Hands settling on Jon's hips, Martin tucked up firmly against his back. "Nearly done?"

"Ah, yes," Jon said quietly, turning off the water and resting his palms against the counter.

For a moment, Martin didn't feel ready to escalate it. It was terribly comfortable, having Jon in his arms. Resting his chin against Jon's shoulder, he simply swayed them together, Jon gliding along with him without hesitation. A long, low breath let out of Jon, and Martin was fairly sure he was going to say something lightly sardonic to diffuse the tension, maybe remarking on the lack of music. 

Brushing his lips against Jon's temple, Martin felt him let it go, and tip his weight further back, giving in to the tuneless dance.

There was a vague plan. Martin intended to play at this for a while until the opportunity felt ripe, then have Jon up against the counter. That felt like a good dismount of the evening of tension that had been winding tighter between them.

It sort of derailed. Or, a derailing was violent and sudden. The intention _faded_ , as Jon turned around in Martin's arms and did that slinky slide of his arms going around Martin's neck, his forehead coming to rest on Martin's collarbone as they swayed. It became less of an indulgence and more something they were doing together. Just dancing around the kitchen.

On a whim, Martin took Jon's hand and held it lifted as they turned in idle circles across the floor.

Jon seemed to come unpinned, slumping more heavily against Martin, eyes completely closed. It was peaceful. Would've been better with music.

As soon as Martin shifted, Jon lifted his head with a soft noise that reminded Martin of nothing so much as a cat coming awake, that weird little sound they made.

"Jon," Martin whispered. "Color?"

Jon's brow furrowed, and he didn't answer immediately.

"Jon," he prompted again, squeezing Jon's hand.

There was a distinctly dazed look on Jon's face as he looked up at Martin, the focus of his eyes meandering to Martin's mouth, to his eyes, to his jaw. "Could we sit?"

Oh, they definitely could. Martin bent to catch Jon under the knees, pulling him close and up, feet leaving the floor. He wasn't a light man, but it wasn't terribly far to the sofa, where Martin sat heavily down.

Jon immediately tucked himself under one of Martin's arms, a hand on Martin's belly, his head slumped drowsily. "Better," he murmured.

Finding a streak of grey, Martin stroked his hair. "Alright? Do you want me to take that off you?"

"No," Jon said quickly, rubbing his cheek against Martin. "It's all a lot, but I…" He waved a hand through the air, fingers a lackadaisical curve. "I'm wallowing in it."

"Okay," Martin breathed, and fully carded his hand into Jon's hair, rubbing his scalp. "Is that… good?"

"Mm." Jon breathed deeply. He smoothed the apron over his lap idly. "I don't hate it."

"It was just an idea," Martin said. "We don't have to—"

"I should rephrase," Jon said, a touch more grouchy. "I enjoy it. Though I have trouble with the concept of looking attractive like this." Martin opened his mouth, and Jon knocked his knuckles against Martin's chest. "Keep your sentimentality to yourself."

"No," Martin said. "You're always attractive." He leaned to lay a loud smacking kiss against Jon's temple.

With a faint eye roll, Jon settled again. "You like this?" he asked softly.

"I do," Martin told him. "I apparently like you barefoot as well, which is new information to me."

There was a long blink before Jon snorted. "Martin. That's dreadful."

"No, it's just _cliche."_ He returned to stroking Jon's hair.

Jon leaned into it for a moment, eyes drifting shut. "Martin."

"Yes, love."

Jon inhaled sharply at that, eyes tight shut. His fist twisted in Martin's shirt.

Martin waited for something to come after that, but Jon was quiet. So, the atmosphere dissipated around them, and left only them behind.

* * *

When the weather started to get cold again, but before the true cold snap (and snap and snap and snap) that was destined to lash like a whip through London, there was an art fair.

Martin didn't know about it because he had trouble keeping up with events in his own sphere, let alone anything beyond it. But Jon had a physical, actual newspaper and showed Martin the flyer printed under the fold, and asked, "Could you be free on Saturday?"

The fair was a long art walk. The street was closed for several blocks, and rows of tents where set up, with breaks for crossways and food stands.

All of the tents were staid and white, obviously supplied by in bulk by the event. Looking from one end of the walk down to the other, it was like ski slopes. Or so Martin assumed from seeing the Olympics; he'd never gone skiing, as it wasn't among his previous client's Rich Person Hobbies. More of a boat racing type.

But regardless of the boring outsides, under each tent was a different artists' work, and so each tent was filled with its own world.

There was blown glass that bubbles and swirled like marble candy. There were elaborate crosstitches that bloomed like jellyfish and left long braided threads hanging to the floor. There was a felted animal toy artist that made soft, tiny otters and camels and owls that Martin cooed over. There was a splatter artist that was stood on a high stood, their head just missing the canopy of their tent as they dropped paint from height on a canvas.

There were several pottery tents, and Jon eventually unfurled a canvas back from his jacket pocket. "I knew you'd want mugs," Jon said in a flat tune.

"This one is an axolotl," Martin told him gravely. "I need it."

Jon rolled his eyes, but added it to the bag, alongside the fox and the clownfish mugs they'd already purchased.

The sun was high, but there was a sharp urban wind through the street as they stopped for street food. Standing out in it was treacherously cold, so they continued to walk as they ate.

Halfway up the row of tents, they lingered in the doorway of traditional artist. Or, what was the best name Martin knew for her. She was in discussion with some potential customers, leaving them to look through the canvases hung on the wall. There was a collection of small palm-sized painted blocks, each with a highly detailed flower bloom. Another was a long narrow motion study of wings in motion, the same bird painted over and over again along the length. The largest piece was the view of a garden through rain-splattered glass, and Martin leaned in slow to examine the brush strokes. It seemed _impossible,_ how intricately the colors managed to convey a glass pane in the way of the plants.

"That's magic," Martin murmured.

"It's incredibly skilled," Jon said, just as quietly. "The control of color is very, very meticulous. See how everything looks softer and paler at the top, where the sun is hitting the glass?"

"It's like… realer than a photo, in a weird way?"

Jon nodded slowly. "The texture of the thing, it adds depth that doesn't exist even in reality."

Martin straightened. "Like… oh, you'll think it's silly."

"Maybe," Jon answered, and drew Martin from the tent slowly. "Tell me anyway."

"You know, looking at one of those _obscenely_ fancy TVs and how everything looks more real than the world around you?"

"Yes." He smiled faintly. "Not my favorite style personally, but I admire the craft."

"Do you have a favorite style?" Martin asked, then felt a little like kicking himself. "Ah, other than, you know. Body painting."

Jon didn't laugh, simply peered into the next tent. Sculptures, all sweeping motion, the idea of bodies with no faces. 

He exhaled slowly. "I don't know. Something along the lines… do you remember Klimt?"

Martin remembered fondly the tiny bit of approval Jon showed at the print in his office. "I do. He's very… colorful. I like it."

"There's this whole thing, the Vienna Succession, it's a lot of historical bollocks I won't bore you with," Jon went on, his words coming sharp and quick. "But there's a lot of… recognizable shaped, but heightened, distorted. And a bit gauded up, like Expressionism colliding with Art Nouveau."

"Macha," Martin said, relieved to have a pull.

Jon smirked. "Yes, Macha, among others." He cleared his throat. "I enjoy that. Colliding the real with something greater and more graphic. That's what I— I think I'll do. After some experiments."

The gasp Martin let out was _entirely_ too loud, and he clapped a hand over his mouth. It was too late, and Jon glared at him, his ears turning red.

"Don't, don't get prematurely excited," Jon groused, looking away to adjust the bag on his shoulder. "It's mostly to shut Daisy up. She's been needling me about it, and I figure if I can produce something worthwhile, that'll put an end to it for a while."

"You're going to paint something," Martin said, still muffled by his hand. His heart was beating fast in his chest at the very idea. He never considered it, maybe because for… for the year and change that he'd known Jon, Martin had never seen him make his own piece. Always, his talent was applied judiciously to others' work.

It felt gauche to question it. Martin was _not_ an artist by any means, and it felt beyond his depth to ask Jon why he never did his own work. It felt rude.

He'd never thought it was a possibility. Now, the excitement swelled in him like an extremely happy balloon.

Tucking his hair back against the onslaught of the wind, Jon let out a hum. "I'm going to try, I suppose. If this is the last we speak of it, you can safely assume it went poorly, and do me the courtesy of forgetting the whole thing."

"I shall not," Martin countered fiercely. "I want to see anything you make."

"You don't," Jon said with an aggrieved sigh. "It will be a lot of failures before it's even a partial success."

"So?" Martin leaned his arm against Jon's side. "I love you, even when you're not a perfect success."

"Stop it," Jon muttered, his cheeks darkening. "Anyway. It's all to get Daisy off my back." He glanced up at Martin though, his gaze fleeting and twinged with nervousness. "Let's continue, shall we?"

Reaching down, Martin took Jon's hand. There was a soft huff before Jon obligingly intertwined their fingers. "Yeah," Martin said, his smile growing across his face. "Let's go."

There were hundreds more pieces to look at before the day was done.

Soon, if all went well, Martin would see Jon's art, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is imperfect, but I realized that if I never put a bow on it and finished it, it wasn't going to get any more perfect. I'm happy to see thing done, even if I don't think I managed to land what I was aiming for. oh well. not every story can be exactly what I planned.
> 
> this fic literally would not have been completed with y'all leaving comments on it. I would have just let it languish incomplete and ignored it if not for the steady trickle of feedback. thank you for enjoying the journey thus far, I hope the ending is not too much of a disappointment.
> 
> ... i think the dinner negotiation scene is p good still.


	5. epilogue: the dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an epilogue that's definitely just about a dress

Everything began during their regular a yoga session. They tended to do these at Daisy's apartment because she had a nice rug spread over her living room floor that was comfortable to stretch on. Thus far, she hadn't succeeded in getting Jon to go to the gym with her, as the idea of physical exertion in the presence of strangers made Jon's skin crawl, but yoga was good. It tended to make him feel like less of an old man after a good session, which was nice.

Jon was laid in a supine twist, breathing steady and deep, willing his spine to unlock a bit. Daisy tended to pose next to him for when he struggled to remember what he was meant to be doing, and it was nice to lay on, really, just a very nice rug, very good thickness, watching Daisy as she blew a bit of hair out of her face.

"Oh. Hey," she said suddenly, coming out of the twist with slow deliberation. "Your boyfriend's birthday is coming up soon. First week of July, I think?"

Jon continued to lay still as Daisy moved to the next pose. "What? Is it really?" He frowned, doing some mental math. "So I've missed it already, last year?"

"Yeah." She shot him a sharp look, and he hurried to follow her position, threading-the-needle. This way, he couldn't see her, which was annoying. "Probably wasn't a good idea. He wasn't in the right place for birthday stuff before." There was a short pause before she added, "His mother died a few years ago, not _on_ the day but… close enough, you know?"

Oh. Jon blinked hard, unable to help but recall his grandmother's passing. He'd been at his first exhibition when the call came. The rest of the night was a complete blur.

Jon remembered he didn't sell any of his paintings, just put them away in a cabinet and locked it and… who knew where they were now.

"So he's not one for festivities?" Jon asked gently.

"That's the thing," Daisy said. She paused as she moved to the next position. "He's had a few years to wallow in it. Think he ought to have something else to do 'round the time."

"Like me?" Jon mused.

Daisy snorted. "You got that in you, Sims?"

Hopefully. Letting out an indistinct noise, Jon moved onto his hands and feet, letting his head hang heavily between his braced arms.

* * *

In the evenings, Martin was frequently so tired, Jon kept finding him sleeping on the sofa.

To Jon's understanding, Martin was in the process of training up another office assistant, with the intention of finally stepping back from Blackwood House. Not drastically, of course, but enough so he could avoid being in every day. It was a looming eventuality, an oncoming goal that Jon found _very_ exciting.

God, perhaps they could go on a proper vacation. What a small and exhilarating fantasy.

But the compromise was that for now, Martin was even more exhausted than usual. Today, like many other days before, his head was tipped back against the sofa, his eyes shut and breathing steady as Jon quietly let himself into the townhouse.

Gravitating over to Martin, Jon kept his touch light as he stroked the hair back from Martin's face.

Obviously it was a little disappointing, how little they saw each other lately, and how often Martin dozed off when they were together.

But also, it did… do something for Jon, to be able to come over to Martin's place as if it were his own home, and to do what he could to help. To take care of Martin.

The fact of the matter was that Martin had been _annoyingly_ right. The domesticity felt good, like a cat arching its back into a stroke. And sometimes, learning things about yourself was a nuisance.  
  


With a much aggrieved sigh, Jon went to the fridge to see what he had to work with.

Working at the counter, Jon dismantled herbs and chopped up a fennel bulb and opened a little container of sliced onion— he couldn't _stand_ the way his eyes teared up, he really couldn't— Jon set up some chicken breasts to braise in an aromatic mix of fennel, rosemary, lemon, onions, and white wine. Once it was all in the oven, he sighed and left the kitchen.

Martin was still sleeping. Jon tousled his hair lightly and stood over him, draping an arm around his shoulders.

Finally, Martin pressed his lips together and swallowed, humming lowly. "Hullo."

Jon dragged his nails over Martin's skin lightly. "Are you awake now?"

"No," Martin said petulantly, and opened his eyes, smiling up at Jon. "I think I must be dreaming."

Flushing, Jon straightened. "I've put dinner on."

"Good. C'mere."

Circling the sofa, Jon allowed himself to be coaxed down to sit across Martin's lap. Smiling, Martin linked his arms around Jon's waist and rested his cheek against Jon's chest, eyes closing.

"Don't fall asleep again," Jon tutted, fingercombing his own hair back, out of the way.

"You're so fussy today," Martin complained. Lifting his head again, he leaned in close to Jon. "Have I not been giving you enough attention, lovely?"

The thread of truth was a sweet sting as Jon flushed deeper. "I… no, I'm fine."

But when Martin kissed him, Jon swayed heavily into it, falling into Martin's body and kissing back.

"M'sorry," Martin murmured, their lips brushing. "I know things haven't been the same lately."

"As long as I get you back after all this folderol, I'll survive." It struck him then, about what Daisy had said before, about Martin's schedule. "But you'll take time off in July, right?" When Martin gave him a blank look, Jon elaborated: "Your birthday?"

"My…" Martin trailed off, looking down, at Jon's hand. Drawing it up, he squeezed Jon's fingers, then started to delicately flake off the lingering paint from his skin. "You know, I forgot that was coming up."

"Well, now I have reminded you." He turned over his hand to allow Martin more paint to pick at. "We went to the bed and bath in Edinburgh for mine."

A low hum rolled out of Martin. "Crepes. Those were really good crepes." His nose wrinkled. "We don't… need to do something fancy for mine."

"We don't _need_ to do anything." Jon could feel the radiating confusion out of Martin. It seemed to baffle him that Jon would suggest anything like this, for him. "But dress up, go somewhere. Eat well, the whole thing."

Sighing, Martin let out some of his tension. "We can do that." His smile was timid, and swiftly hidden as he kissed Jon again.

After dinner and after watching a movie on the sofa and after making out after the movie, Martin started dozing off again, and it was time for bed.

By now, most of Jon's pajamas lived at Martin's house. More than once, Jon had finished some client meeting or consultation with a gallery manager, and just found himself at Martin's house without really thinking about it. It was a gravity well slowly drawing him in. It also drew in most of his clothes and three different pairs of shoes and his toothbrush and his specific shampoo and hair mask.

Sometimes, Jon thought it seemed very silly that he had two of everything now. It was untidy, superfluous.

Martin's cheek pressed against Jon's spine as he breathed deep and steady. His weight was solid and comforting as Jon flicked through his phone, not quite tired yet.

He browsed the event calendars of the galleries he liked best, the museum he tolerated the most. He also checked the film rotation at the art house cinema nearby, but… the idea of just going to a movie seemed too pedestrian. What was the point of dressing up to only go sit in a dark room?

Dressing up.

Jon's eyes slipped beyond the screen as he thought about that specifically. He wanted to be sure to dress up for Martin's birthday. To make it feel, not to be trite, special.

From where he was being affectionately crushed into the bed, Jon could see the closet across the room. All of Martin's office clothes were hung up neatly. Under them were the bins that held the various toys and tools they used for scenes, neatly put away and organized.

Hanging on the door itself was Jon's apron, always readily accessible and quick at hand.

Jon gnawed at his lip. The screen on his phone dimmed, and he snapped back to attention, waking it again.

Perhaps he had an idea.

* * *

Daisy was pawing through Jon's pantry like a woman possessed. "There's cobwebs in here, Sims," she said as she searched.

Jon stiffened and leaned out of the bedroom to stare at her. "Are there actually?"

"No. Just a phrase. But there's not so much as a bag of crisps." She hip checked the door shut. "We've got to go out."

"In a moment, I'm busy." He returned to his room, looking through his things with a keen eye.

"Terrible hosting." Her footsteps sounded across the floor before she appeared in the doorframe. She was polite enough not to enter, but leaned her shoulder against the frame. "What're you doing? Late spring cleaning?"

There were clothes laid out over the bed, sorted into groups. A few were taken off hangers and folded up, to be donated perhaps. He wasn't sure yet.

Regardless, it wasn't here. He had been fairly sure he had one in the back of his closet, but now assumed that he'd gotten rid of it. Maybe at the time, he was still sore over his break up with Georgie and it was another reminder.

"I was trying to find something," Jon muttered. "But it’s not here." He dragged a hand through his hair, drawing it back and re-tying his messy bun. One hand braced on his hip, his other rubbed his jaw. "I don't have a lot of time…"

Daisy sighed and squinted at him. "Hm. Birthday thing?"

"Yes," Jon said. "I was… I thought to dress up for him, for the day."

Her eyes were very narrow, sharp like a stiletto or a needle. "Like in pinstripes or like in taffeta."

"Not _taffeta,"_ Jon said acidly. "Something with taste."

"Huh. Didn't know that was the boss' thing," she murmured.

Jon clucked his tongue. _"Gender things._ I think he'd enjoy it. An element of it has already been incorporated into regular play." A sigh. "My problem is I was _quite sure_ I had a suitable dress ready to go. I didn't anticipate having to order one in as well."

"So don't," Daisy said, and jerked her head. "C'mon. Let's grab something to eat and trawl through some shops."

"What, and I'll just _try on_ a dress?" Jon said, meeting her squinted gaze with his own.

"Yeah? It'll be faster that way, especially if you need to have it altered before the big day."

A curl of anxiety zipped up Jon's spine. His fingers clenched. "I don't think that's a good idea. It might draw… attention."

Giving him a blank look, Daisy lifted one arm and… flexed it. As if she were a bodybuilder at competition. "Why you ought to go with a bodyguard, hm?"

Inhaling, Jon felt a low simmering heat flood up from his chest and across his cheeks. The implicit offer, that Daisy would protect Jon if anything happened was… an intense and heady reassurance.

While he contemplated this, Daisy rolled her eyes. "Come now, or I'm going to go without you."

Unfortunately, being told what to do still worked rather well on Jon. Nodding, he followed. "Fine. Let me treat you to lunch before you fight for my honor."

* * *

There was lunch, and then a brief lorry ride to a suitable strip of clothing shops.

For quite a while, Jon didn't do more than sort through the racks, observing what his options were, what was en vogue right now. Predictably, more than one shop attendant asked Daisy if she needed any assistance. Silently, Jon smirked, and moved hangers, looking at gowns and A lines and bodycons.

Eventually, Daisy sighed, and said, "Yeah, he's trying to find something less gala and more… cocktail night."

Jon made a face. "No, that's not it either." He glanced over at who Daisy had roped into this.

It was easy to see the mental arithmetic that Daisy had done. This specific person had a certain _look_ that did ping a certain kind of mental radar. It was a mix of the shoes (Docs) and the fact she had tattoos peeking out from under her business casual uniform. And the lipstick. Definitely the lipstick.

A look was shared between the three of them, and the attendant smiled softly. "What's the event?"

"Probably a gallery night," Jon answered, ignoring the way Daisy snorted. Yes, he knew he was predictable. He liked art. _Martin_ liked art!

"So you could do something with more statement to it," the attendant said, idly looking around the store. "How… dramatic?"

"I don't think it's a drag thing," Daisy said, then shot Jon a look of curiosity. "Is it a drag thing?"

"No," Jon said firmly. Even if he were personally interested in that level of performance, the amount of _work_ that went into such a thing was well beyond him. "Just… something nice."

"Okay. Let me show you some things," she said, and led them further into the store.

Jon decided this was going to be where he bought the dress, regardless of if it was _perfect._ He might not luck out with another sympathetic mind somewhere else. As he was shown options, with Daisy hovering nearby with her arms crossed firmly across her chest, full bouncer mode, he slowly relaxed, took hangers off the rack, held a few dresses up to himself.

When another patron wandered too close, the attendant coaxed Jon to go try a few things on, in the back where it was quiet and private.

The first few didn't work, and Jon glowered at the mirror as he tried to nail down what was off.

"Talk to me," the attendant, who was named Allegra, said.

"I don't have a figure for most of these. I don't want it to be a costume," Jon said. His hand waved emphatically through the air. "It’s the hips, I think? At home, I have this— this apron, that he likes. That I like. It flares outward here." He indicated with a few gestures the shape he meant.

"Okay, gimme a few minutes. Please help yourself to refreshments," Allegra said, and hustled out of the fitting area with a determined set to her step.

Daisy reached out and helped herself to a bottle of water, branded with some company Jon had never heard of before. "Hm. Fancy… Think they charge us for the drinks we break the seal on at the end, like hotels do?"

"I would hope it's folded into the price of the clothes," Jon muttered, taking a look at the tag on one of the rejected dresses, and shaking his head.

Leaning back, Daisy crossed her leg over her knee. "Can I ask, how far does this kind of play go? I thought you didn't like this sort of thing much."

With anyone else in the world, Jon might've bristled at the question, but the shared history between them was fairly unique. Back before… before Martin, Jon might have sat with her after a session and just talked about these things, bold as brass in the hallowed sanctum of the Blackwood House.

So, Jon merely shrugged. "I don't like… not being myself. I have an almost allergic aversion to it. But I… have come to enjoy playing as _versions_ of myself?"

"You mentioned an apron," Daisy pointed out. "Makes sense."

"It— you and Martin both seem to think so, then fine," Jon groused. "Apparently these things are obvious to everyone but me."

Despite his annoyance, Daisy just said in a mild tone, "Sometimes you're too close to see something. Nothin' wrong with that." She tilted her head. "Is it a Miss Sims thing?"

Jon thought about it. If it _was_ , then there was no way he could play this off as a surprise for Martin; they'd have to talk it through beforehand to ensure such a thing was handled properly. Not just for Jon, but for Martin. Luckily, the answer came to him, and he slowly said, "No, it's not. It's still me. When I'm in an apron, I'm not his _wife_ , I'm his spouse."

Daisy nodded, as if this made perfect sense to her. All things considered, maybe it did.

A funny grin broke over her face, that she covered with her fingers as she looked at Jon. "Well. Know which of you is wearing white to the wedding."

Before he could properly respond to _that_ , Allegra returned to their little alcove, three more hangers in hand, lifted well over the ground.

"I've brought a few more—" she started.

But Jon just said, "Oh," as his eyes found The Dress.

Daisy looked. "Oh?"

Jon nodded. _Oh._

God, he hoped it'd fit.

* * *

The thing about the price tag was: there was _no chance_ Jon would accidentally throw _this_ one out. Just absolutely no way.

With the dress sealed into a garment bag, Jon carried it over his shoulder as he and Daisy left, and made their way from the opulent shops, back to something a little more manageable.

Jon almost walked to a Tube station, before remembering himself. Tutting, he rejoined Daisy as she lifted her eyebrows at him.

"Got a plane to catch?" she asked.

"Muscle memory," Jon told her with a sigh. "I seem to default to going to Balham."

"Ah, ha," Daisy said, a sharp, quick laugh. "God, Sims. You're a funny one."

"Am I?"

"You don't have any food in the house, you spend most of your time with your boyfriend, and you're going to wear a dress for him." Her laughter was good-natured, soft at the edges. "It's just funny. I've never been much for that thing. Romance and all."

Jon knew this about Daisy. It had always reassured Daisy, that they shared specific lacks that the rest of the world took as granted. It also amused him, how Daisy had happened into such a perfect profession. He was almost jealous.

"It's nice, sometimes," Jon said mildly.

"You going to move in with him, or what?"

"Or what," Jon echoed, turning his head to stare at her.

"I just want a heads-up beforehand. I've got a good relationship with the boss, but I don't want to hang around his house, so you'd be coming over to mine more often." Her nose wrinkled. "'Less you became one of those boring bastards who stopped having friends because you found true love, or whatever. That happens sometimes."

The urge to reassure Daisy that _wasn't_ going to happen was strong. He'd been through similar enough things, with friends who began dating and drew away from him because he wasn't sleeping with them, so… But Daisy was as bristley as a cactus, so Jon put on an offended tone. "I'm not _boring,_ I'm distinguished."

"Sure, Sims. Tell yourself that in the mirror every morning." She knocked her elbow into him. "Hey, stop in here," she said, pointing to a corner shop.

Jon silently followed her.

God, was he going to move in with Martin? He couldn't, he had to have his studio space. No, it wasn't feasible.

It would cut down on travel time, though. No more having to ride the Tube down to Belham, just… be there already.

Would Martin want that? He did like coming home to Jon, teased as much often, but did that _mean_ anything? Was it a scene thing or potentially a _them_ thing?

Daisy elbowed him again. "Hey."

"Yes, I'm here," Jon said.

She shot him a look, as if she didn't _quite_ believe that. Nudging him again, she nodded ahead.

She'd led him over to a display. Razors, hanging from peg hooks.

When Jon didn't say anything, she rolled her eyes. "For the _big day,_ Sims, come on. Are you going to…" Her fingers caught the leg of his trousers and tugged lightly.

"Oh. _Oh."_ He stepped back, now actually looking at everything with renewed understanding. "I… hadn't reached that part of the planning process." There were more options to pick from than he knew what to do with. "Do you… think I should?"

Her eyebrows lifted fractionally. "Hm. It'd probably be hot." When he let out a startled laugh, she nodded, and picked up one of the packages. It was tellingly one of the more expensive types of razors, with a big brick of lotion around the blades. "Go with this, so you won't slice your legs up."

"Yes, thank you," he said, taking it from her.

"Do we need to look at make up?"

"I have plenty, I'm fine," Jon said. "Do you want some crisps?"

Daisy's eyes lit up, and she swiftly left his side, off to the snack aisle.

Right. With a fond headshake, Jon slowly walked back up to the cashier, certain Daisy would catch up with her acquisitions soon.

* * *

To ensure that everything came together as it should, Jon did admittedly employ some subterfuge. He didn't think Martin would _intentionally_ forget their outing, but to be sure, Jon did send Gerry a wall of texts to explain that it was _very important_ that Martin left the office at a reasonable time. Bodily removed if necessary.

As such, Martin did return home with time to spare, finding Jon in the oversized armchair, smiling sheepishly. "Hi."

"Hello," Jon said. "Good day?"

"I don't think anyone let me do _anything_ today," Martin said as he walked to stand next to the armchair.

Jon hummed and took one of Martin's hands, stroking a thumb against his skin. "Don't know why you went in."

"I've got to," Martin groused, gripping Jon's hand and lifting it to kiss the knuckles. "Where are we going tonight? How fancy is it?"

"Moderately," Jon answered. "We have some time before we have to get ready."

That meant time for Martin to squeeze onto the chair, Jon settling next to him, legs draped over his lap.

He should have predicted it when Martin started to idly massage Jon's ankles. He always put hands on Jon when they sat together like this. Martin's fingers pressed firmly into the tendon following up from Jon's heel, which felt so nice, he didn't notice right away when Martin began dragging his fingers against Jon's skin.

Which was, as of about two hours ago, freshly shaved and thus smooth, it made Jon's legs feel _strange._

Martin's eyebrows lifted slightly as he continued to stroke Jon's skin.

A glance was shared between them. Martin smiled slightly.

Jon looked back at the telly, saying nothing. His ears were burning.

A few hours later, it was time to get ready. Jon urged Martin to get dressed first and waited, trying not to pace in the living room as he waited.

It was fine. He'd done a practice run of this two days ago in his own apartment. He knew what he was doing, and Martin was fairly likely to enjoy it.

Still, Jon rested a hand on his collarbone, just trying to calm himself a little.

Eventually, Martin stepped out, and Jon's heart panged at the pale, pale green buttondown he'd selected, tucked into perfectly fine dark trousers.

"Do I need a tie?"

Swallowing, Jon shook his head. "Shouldn't do, no. I'll go and get ready."

"Sure. I'm going to have a cup of tea before we go. Do you want one?"

"I'll be fine, thanks," Jon said, and hurried into the bedroom, shutting the door behind.

Through it, he could hear the pause Martin had before he stepped away, towards the kitchen.

Right. Jon stripped.

The trickiest part was easily the shoes. Jon didn't have a good pair a week ago, not for this, and finding the right size, the right style, _without_ the kind of heels that would kill him had been troublesome. Given the rest of the ensemble, Jon thought he could be forgiven for electing more reasonable shoes for the night. He wouldn't look good if he broke an ankle.

The next trickiest part had been the zip. Daisy had been there to help him the first time with it, but nothing would spoil the surprise more than having to call Martin in to help get it up Jon's back.

With forethought aplenty, Jon has tied a piece of string to a safety pin, and attached the pin to the zip. As he stepped into the dress and pulled it into place, he used the string to pull it up, closed. There, he unfastened the pin, and it was perfect.

He'd always been something of a problem solver.

Smoothing the skirt down, Jon grabbed the case he'd stashed under the bathroom sink and opened it. He didn't want to do much, didn't want to look in the mirror and not see himself. But he'd worn eyeliner before, and darkening his eyes a bit with _little_ gold shimmer was subtle enough. Rather than a full rogue, Jon went with a lip tint, and left it at that.

Hair down and fingercombed into something tame, Jon pinned it back from his temples. For a moment, he glared at his reflection, at the glint of silver that streaked through. It was fine. Distinguished. He was distinguished.

Sighing, Jon looked himself over. Acceptable.

God, he hoped this was an adequate enough gift for Martin, or he'd feel _very_ foolish.

Flicking the light off, Jon sat to put on his shoes, buckling them at the sides, before standing.

Oh, it was weird being just an inch and a half taller. He took a few experimental steps to be sure, and remembered what Georgie had taught him— land on the front of the foot, then the heel, not heel-toe.

Treacherous, but manageable.

Taking a breath, Jon opened the door, putting his shoulders back. "Are you ready to go, then?" he asked, pitching his voice louder than usual.

"I'm finishing my cuppa, could you just—" Martin stopped, because he'd turned around, his big tabby cat mug held in his hands. All his words dried up, mouth open as his eyes blew wide, running along Jon.

Jon didn't nervously look down at himself. He'd examined his own visage thoroughly before and knew what he looked like.

The Dress, as it indelibly became in his head, sat just barely off his shoulders, the neckline showing his clavicle prominently. The bodice was fairly fitted, demanding the zip up the back to fit snugly. Thankfully, it wasn't created with someone with a bust in mind, flat panels that came down to his hips, where the rest of the dress flared out. It was a high-low skirt, shorter in the front, up to his knee, sweeping lower in the back with a swishy drape.

The shape was nice enough. Jon could pull it off. But what he liked, what made it The Dress, was the color. It was a beautiful, gradual gradient of colors. In the bodice was a blood-dark inkpot green color. Down the skirt, down the hem, it bled out to lighter hues, cascading through until it ended with a pale, pale green around the hem.

Of course it _had_ to be green.

"Well," Jon said, aware his face was flushing under Martin's stare and determined to ignore it. "Taxi will be here at the hour, so you should finish up."

"Ah, uh, um," Martin said.

"I didn't want to take the Tube. These shoes have a half-life on them, and I'll not stand around in them for nothing."

Martin put a hand over his mouth, muffling himself.

Inclining his head, Jon walked to the kitchen, eager for a drink. Toe-heel, toe-heel.

He'd filled up a glass with water before Martin appeared in the archway, his eyes still very wide as he looked at Jon.

Jon wet his mouth, then set the glass aside.

Martin put his tea mug down, and reached out a hand, palm up, fingers curled.

This was easy. He'd done this part before. Putting his hand in Martin's, Jon let himself be pulled in close.

Slowly, Martin's arm lifted, guiding Jon into a drowsy turn. The skirt moved with him in a swirl.

Hands landed firmly on his waist as Martin held him.

Jon touched one of the buttons of Martin's shirt. "Hi."

"Hello," Martin murmured, and pressed his lips to Jon's temple. "It's not fair."

"What's not?"

"You're the artist. I don't have the— the vocabulary to explain how you look." Martin leaned back, looking down into Jon's eyes. "You look lovely."

"That's all the words you need," Jon said. "Happy birthday."

Martin laughed, a little flustered. That was fine. That was nice, even.

* * *

Jon was sold on this as a gift for Martin from the start, had thought it over obsessively since the idea initially occurred to him.

When the taxi arrived at the Halcyon Gallery, and Martin got out to circle around and open the door for Jon, that was the moment Jon's chest flooded with warmth.

 _Oh,_ he thought, taking Martin's hand and letting him pull Jon out and to his feet. The skirt moved around his legs, settling, and distracted Jon long enough to accidentally let Martin handle the cabbie.

Pursing his lips, Jon glared at Martin's wallet. "It's your birthday."

Martin just hummed, and took Jon's hand again, lacing their fingers together and smiling.

The gallery sat in Mayfair, on a _very_ well-to-do strip of road. There were art sellers around, as well as boutique shops, the sort that wanted four figures for a handbag.

There was also Sotheby's just down the street; Jon shot it a withering glare.

Following Jon's gaze, Martin let out a soft laugh. "Too close to home?"

"Don't ever imply rich clients are _home_ ever again," Jon said. When he started to walk away, Martin followed. "It maybe didn't occur to me until just now I might see someone I know."

Martin hummed diplomatically. "You did make yourself very eye-catching." His smile was soft around the edges; he couldn't seem to stop looking at Jon.

Demurring, Jon led them up to the door, which Martin helpfully opened for him.

Inside, the crush of air con was immediate, a protest against the heat of the summer night. Given the amount of art on hand, the building had to be kept a certain temperature.

The top floor was mostly sculptures though. It was something of a social space, with people in small clutches, talking amiably, surrounded by statues and hanging displays.

What Jon liked, mostly in spite of himself, was the lighting in Halcyon. Shadows were pervasive through the building, as the art sat under sharp, bright lamps, and the rest of the floor was left dim. It kept the focus where it ought to be, honestly.

Still, Jon took another deep breath as they walked around the ground floor, two people drifting through the current.

There were some nice bronze casts of hands, gripping, clasped together, tight fists that exposed the fine veins under the skin, splayed fingers extending out. A few were annotated with notes about connection, about how if the world were truly silent, one might be able to heart the heartbeat through the skin of another.

There was also a Chihuly exhibit. Tendrils of blown glass in lurid colors, impossible twists and curls, perfect spheres, set on plain white pedestals or hanging from the ceiling. The bright lamps cutting through them colored the light.

Martin paused to smile up at a particularly complicated mass of spiraling glass. "Wow."

Jon nodded. "Complicated, fiddly work."

"Yeah," Martin whispered. Then, making a face, he added, "Still a bit… kitschy."

A laugh startled out of Jon; he quickly covered his mouth. "There's paintings down a level."

The way downstairs was a grand staircase, white steps with twin white banisters that sloped gradually into an ornate curl.

Martin stepped down easily.

Jon tutted under his breath and stared at his feet. "Maybe there's an elevator," he said to himself.

"What's up?" Martin turned, looking up at Jon.

Jon gave his own feet a significant look. "I think it was Izzard who said something about how a man in heels can't afford to screw it up."

"I _thought_ you seemed taller." Holding out his hand, Martin smiled, waiting.

Between the helping hand and the banister, Jon managed to not twist an ankle, letting out a relieved breath as he got both feet on the ground again. "Right. That was harrowing. Let's look at some art."

Downstairs were oversized rooms filled with paintings. Jon thought Halcyon must've come into some more recently, as the spaces between each frame were narrower than usual. New, tall watercolors stood out amid the rest of the portraits and urban landscapes, the color fluid and beautiful with stunning detail.

Keeping a hand pressed to his chest, Jon leaned in to look at the details. He could see a stark tree, and the overlapping chunks of a honeycomb tucked against it. The detail work was immaculate and small, with gold-yellow combs tucked into the hive.

Meticulous little details, requiring steady, delicate work.

When Martin drifted away, Jon fell in with his wake, trailing him to another corner of the room. Here, there were very small square frames, painted with weighty strokes of paint, hardened into place in dramatic swoops.

And pressed in were pieces of metal, of half-spheres, or shellacked thread, coming off the canvas.

"Well, those are difficult to transport," Jon remarked dryly.

Martin shot him an exasperated look, rolling his eyes. "It's fun."

"You like having sharp bits sticking out at you?"

"I like depth," Martin said, sounding defensive. "Though it does make my fingers twitch, I want to touch it so bad. Kind of a shame art's not meant to be touched."

"Mm," Jon hummed, and swayed into Martin, relieved when Martin put an arm around him. "Not traditionally, no."

"Mum used to have these quilts," Martin said quietly. "They were really beautiful, and had this sort of stitching in them to make them have this wavy crinkle texture all over, right?"

Turning his head, Jon watched Martin's face in profile. He spoke of his mother so rarely, Jon… sort of conceptually forgot he had one, assumed instead he was sprung fully formed from the forehead of some old god of emotional intelligence and protection and exquisite pain.

"When we lived in a big house, the quilt sat on the guest bed. And when we moved somewhere a little smaller, she put it up on the wall." He frowned. "Dunno where I'm going with this."

"The, ah, propensity to be more concerned with something lasting forever than with being able to enjoy it?" Jon tucked his hair behind his ear. "Just a guess."

"No, that sounds right," Martin murmured.

He was _extremely_ curious, in such a way it outweighed his good sense. "Did you get to keep it? After she passed?"

"The quilt?" Martin shook his head. "No. Gave it to some antique dealer to sell. It never felt like I was allowed to touch it, even after."

Jon took Martin's hand, squeezing it as they moved on.

Another room was painted starkly black, with flower paintings on the walls, each under a single bright light, reflecting the pale hues back into the room.

They were fine. Jon felt mostly unmoved by them; it seemed like someone's collection was receiving extra attention with a particularly nicely lit room. But Martin went from painting to painting, giving each his full attention.

Jon found the padded viewing bench in the middle of the room and sat down. The skirt spread just beyond his knees, leaving his calves bare down to his shoes. For a moment, he shifted around, trying to make it look natural. What was natural? He crossed his legs at the ankle, stretched out. That was nice.

When he was done worrying, he glanced up and saw Martin was looking at him instead, smiling softly. "Yes?" Jon prompted, impetuous and eager.

"Nothing. I was just thinking." He tucked his hands into his pockets and looked around. "Sometimes I miss watching you do your painting stuff is all." A flush of pink filled his cheeks. "I mean, I— I love it, that you come over so much, and I want you to— to feel at home, right, it's been… the _best_ , honestly." His smile widened, teeth showing. "I just… miss seeing your work."

The pang that Jon felt was strong enough, he pressed his fist against his chest at the phantom sensation. "I…" He couldn't keep the grimace off his face. "It's not very interesting."

"Jon, for god's sake."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I… I know. It's complicated. I've come to… prefer your townhouse to my studio, but the studio has space to work."

Martin was quiet for a moment, then approached, taking the stretch of seat next to Jon. "It's fine. I understand." He smirked. "I don't have those thirty foot ceilings you need."

"I don't _need_ them," Jon said. "They were an investment, in case I received an oversized piece." His brows furrowed. "You know… I don't think we'd be able to get a canvas that tall through the door, let alone up the elevator."

Martin laughed, covering his mouth.

Jon watched him for a moment. Martin always had a rather rounded face, soft edges, belying his age. His crow's feet were getting more prominent with time.

He didn't have laugh lines yet, which was a shame. "Are we discussing this now?"

"What are we discussing?" Martin asked guilelessly. When Jon glared, he only laughed again. "Okay. Later."

"Later," Jon agreed, thinking about his muscle memory guiding him always to Martin's door. Standing, he said, "Let's continue."

* * *

The dress was fine. It was the shoes that were killing him. He should've just worn flats, he had nothing to prove, he was already swathed in green finery.

And yet, here he was wincing as they ascended the stairs again.

Martin made a soft, concerned sound, offering his arm to lean on as they stepped outside. "Are you okay?"

"I will be once I sit for a while," Jon said. When Martin continued to look like a kicked animal, big eyes and a sad expression, he said, "I'm _fine,_ relax."

"Okay. Where's there to eat around here," Martin asked, looking around the street. "What won't cost a month's mortgage?"

"French place," Jon said, pointing in a direction and heading that way. "Only about two-thirds your mortgage."

"Oh, that's reasonable," Martin said, warm and sarcastic.

Slowly as the slide of shared history, Jon was coming to stop expecting… a catcall or an attack or a hurled cruelty. It had become very easy to walk with (slightly wobbly) confidence, to look into the shop windows idly, to pay attention to the things Martin looked at for future gift-giving, to smile and feel the tension unspool from his spine.

The French place was still obnoxiously posh. That in of itself was sort of amusing; Martin put on a _very_ good show, but was to his bones a lower class boy, and so had a wide repertoire of wonderful, flatly unimpressed expressions that he put on in situations like this. Jon adored it, adored him.

The entire menu was in French, because of course it was, except for a rather amusing note under the dinner plates, stating that the game dishes 'might contain lead shot.' Not wanting to potentially break a tooth, Jon went for chicken, which he hoped hadn't been shot.

"Do your feet still hurt?" Martin asked over salad.

"I'm fine. Find something else to fuss over," Jon chided.

"Or you can prop your foot on my knee."

Well, that sounded reasonable. Jon put his foot up, completely hidden by the white table cloth, and relaxed as Martin's thumb dug slow circles around the knot of his ankle.

"This is supposed to be a day about you," Jon pointed out mildly.

Martin smiled. "Isn't it?"

Jon sipped his wine, looking away.

* * *

Wine-plied and full, the taxi ride back was quiet. Jon leaned back against Martin's shoulder, the heavy warmth of Martin's arm around his waist. Cheated out, he could see out the window, and watch the yellow sodium light reflecting off the glass, obscuring the world beyond in sweeps.

He felt Martin rest his head on Jon's.

Jon sometimes felt his brain was wired strangely. After all, he was a masochist, and got a heady almost-pleasure to impact. But he also knew the personalities of colors that didn't live in any theory book. He did yoga with Daisy, and heard certain music as he went from pose to pose. The connectors were cross and mixed and strange.

The weight of Martin against him felt so intensely of home, it was like he was understanding the definition of the word for the first time. This, this, this.

It leaving him was terrible, but Martin opened the door for Jon, helping him climb out. After handling the driver, they were left by the short hedgerow in front of the townhouse.

A pang struck Jon suddenly. They were done. They were back here. "Was this enough?" he blurted suddenly.

"Huh? What?" Martin blinked at him, beautiful and unaware of the sudden tumult of regret in Jon.

"I just— it— it was a day for you, and I just wondered…"

Martin's eyebrows did that thing, where they curved, gentle and kind. "Jon. It was a lovely night." He guided Jon forward with just a hand. "Come on. I know you're _well_ done with those shoes. And it’s my turn to make tea."

That did sound nice.

Inside, Martin hung up his suit jacket, then helped Jon brace himself long enough to unbuckle the hell shoes and drop them loudly onto the mat. "Go sit," Martin murmured, and vanished into the kitchen.

He didn't need to be told twice; Jon found the loveseat and sank gratefully into it, his head slumped back, eyes already shut. Resting his hands on his belly, he felt himself breath, and idly stroked the stitching of his bodice.

It was only a walk through a gallery and dinner, and yet he was rather tired. But he also felt rather tired after doing a scene with the apron as well. The extra heft of a performance did wear him down. Maybe he earned a good cup of tea.

He was still lounging like that as he heard the mug set on the table nearby. Opening his eyes reluctantly, he watched Martin just… slowly drop himself onto the floor at Jon's feet.

A little more awake, Jon watched Martin take a sip of his own tea before resting it aside, on the coffee table. There was a kitchen towel over his arm, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up.

Without a word, Martin drew one of Jon's feet into his lap and wrapped it in the warm, damp towel. His hands clenched down through it, his fingers pressing in, squeezing Jon's heel and pressing knuckles to the arch.

The sound Jon made was obscene. Martin only chuckled, and continued to move and bend Jon's foot through the towel. When he was satisfied with one, he rested it aside, and started the same firm handling with Jon's other foot.

Jon sighed out tension, slumping somehow deeper into the cushions. His head lolled, watching Martin at an angle through slits.

Folding the towel up, Martin set it aside on the table, then looked up at Jon from his seat on the rug. His hands stroked lightly against Jon's legs, smooth and gentle.

Jon did nothing, just breathed and watched.

Smiling softly, Martin pressed in closer, resting his head in Jon's lap. His face was partly hidden by the green drape of the skirt. Under it, out of sight, he held Jon's legs in loose grips. His eyes shut.

The twist in Jon's chest _hurt_ with its intensity. For a moment, Jon was out of his depth, nearly scared of what reality was, having a man he loved resting in his lap.

He covered it with a sip of tea, gathering his nerves.

Then, his hand slid into Martin's thick hair. A soft sigh brushed against him, but otherwise Martin was quiet, and Jon dragged his nails back over his scalp.

He thought of telling Martin _'happy birthday'_ or even _'I love you'_ or maybe _'I could stand to stay here and fold our lives together like papercraft, few people really consider it high art but it's lovely, and this is lovely, and let’s do this all the time, I hate Belgravia anyway and my lease is up next year.'_

But for now, for the moment, the weight of Martin in his lap was enough. Jon drank his tea, explored the sporadic curly texture of Martin's hair, and shut his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy jmart anniversary
> 
> eta: by the way the detail about the french place in walking distance of halcyon gallery with the warning about lead shot is totally real. i did Much Research for this one. i almost set this at the October Gallery but i actually liked it too much and I wanted to give the boys things to kvetch at.


End file.
